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%t\t ^ign of iEorntng 


By 

IRVING B. HOLMAN, Ph. B. 

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Cincinnati: JENNINGS AND GRAHAM 
New York: EATON AND MAINS 


A 


Copyright, 1912, by 
Jennings and Graham 



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Contents 

I. Where the Silent Waters Flow, 13 

II. The Sting of the Night, - 23 

III. The Servant on the Cross - 39 

IV. A Few Days of Rest, - - 48 

V. The Evil Under the Sun, - 51 

VI. I Lift My Eyes Unto the Hills, 62 

VII. For the Altar of Self, - - 74 

VIII. '‘There Cometh Also Nico- 

DEMUS,” - _ - 85 

IX. The Great American Sin, - 96 

X. The Sign of the Morning, - 110 



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preface 

I GIVE this little story to the public. It is a 
story of human life along the ways where the 
race of men goes by — a story of fact and truth, 
of darkness and light, of suffering and joy, 
and of hope and love. If it give any one a 
vision of the hills of help, a deeper sense of the 
world’s need, and strengthen any one’s faith 
in man and God, I shall feel well repaid for 
whatever the task of writing has been. 

Redding^ Iowa, 

June 15t 1912. 







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CHAPTER I 


W^tvt tftc Silent Waters Jfloto 

I MUST start this story at the point where it 
really begins, and tell it in my own way. It 
has a sad beginning, I know, and a hard one; 
for it begins in the ‘‘valley of the shadow.” 
But as most of you in the time of a life have 
picked flowers of consolation there, you will 
come with me, I am sure, having learned, as I 
have, the way that climbs steadily to the up- 
lands and the vision hills. 

I had closed the door of my happy home in 
a country village in one of our Northern States, 
and placed the key in my pocket. I had a 
feeling about the heart that made me uncom- 
fortable. A day later I was in the great city. 
All the afternoon, undisturbed by the winds, 
the January snow was descending. It was 
“The poem of the air. 

In silent syllables recorded,” 

13 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


in which I, and perhaps others of like experi- 
ence, read vastly more and different matter 
than those hundreds with lighter hearts, who 
passed on to their business or their pleasures. 
For it occurred to me that God was a sympa- 
thetic respecter of my tragedy even in thus 
softening the footsteps of all who must pass by 
the hospital of the Good Shepherd, and in 
muffling the voices of the happy children who 
played on the neighboring commons. 

The snows continued falling from the leaden 
skies, and the shadows deepened into early 
twilight. I approached the hospital alone, my 
head bowed in meditation and cheerless fore- 
boding. I looked at the clouds to see if there 
might be any signs of a clearing — for I fancied 
that I wanted the stars that night — ^but there 
were none anywhere. The flakes falling gently 
on my face melted with a pleasant cooling 
effect. My eyes caught the lights in the upper 
windows, and one in particular, where every- 
thing seemed very quiet and restful, and pain- 
fully suggestive. 

I entered the reception-room and laid off my 
14 


WHERE THE SILENT WATERS FLOW 


coat. The lights were glaring in the halls as 
I passed up the stairs and quietly walked down 
the wing corridor. I paused at the door of 
room thirty- two, while a nurse passed me on 
her way out, giving me a welcoming look and 
inviting me within. 

Then two eyes, heavy and dim with sickness, 
but looking love and deeper welcome, greeted 
me. I slipped to the bedside and said, ^‘Wife- 
Clara.” And she whispered, “You have 
come.** 

Who needs to set such poem to music when I 
took her two wan, weak hands in mine that 
were stronger, but gentle, and fondled them as 
I was wont to do? Though behind her smile 
was pain, she loved to smile, as my two strength- 
ful hands held hers that were small and strength- 
less. Mine had grown to gentleness there, and 
there had gotten home. Home! O, my heart, 
home once more. 

After a little when she was very tired — she 
had been very tired for days now — and she was 
almost too weak to smile, and whispered little, 
and her eyes had that strange, dreaded, uncertain 
15 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


look, I kissed the weak darling hands, and lay- 
ing them down softly, passed out into the hall. 

It was dark outside now — very dark. I stood 
by the window and could tell it was still snow- 
ing, for the flakes slid noiselessly against the 
lighted glass. The winter storm was deepening 
with the night, but in my eyes there was a mist 
like that of summer. 

Presently I heard a heavy step coming down 
the hall. I knew it was that of Dr. Wesfall, 
a kind, good man of sixty years. His manner 
was easy, restful, deliberate, and of one having 
authority. I turned about, and he greeted me 
quietly and passed into the room. 

I hardly knew why I seemed to notice each 
individual flake of snow as it fell on the window. 
Yonder in the storm the bulk of a building 
loomed through the dim light shading from 
other windows. Ten minutes seemed an age. 
When the doctor returned, he laid his hand on 
my shoulder, but spoke not a word. For words 
were not needful in that hour of mystery and 
awe. I read his heart better than he could tell 
it, and with more fortitude than I could hear 
16 


WHERE THE SILENT WATERS FLOW 


him speak it, and his mind more than he wanted 
to reveal it. Re-entering the room I sat 
down and took the hands once more. There 
was something in the touch of them that startled 
me and made me shudder. I could not speak, 
and there was silence for some minutes. I 
could hear the ring of an electric call-bell in 
the other rooms, and the soft tread of feet. 
Turning her eyes to me, she whispered in a 
voice that was now weaker still than before: 

‘‘Some time you will walk the evening paths 
again — some time, dear, but not with me. 
Some time love will again put its hand in yours — 
some one else’s — not mine. I can not live; 
you will live on. It will all seem so strange, I 
know, but God is good always. ‘ In my Father’s 
house are many mansions.’ Good-bye — until 
some other day comes for us eternal in the 
heavens.” 

It was only by a strength not my own that 
I did not lose every control in that lover’s last 
moment. But at no time, broken in hope and 
heart as I was, did I give her any suggestion 
that we knew other than that she could be 
2 17 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


with us always. She knew it, however, by a 
knowledge that is not of this world, while we 
spoke heroically of a hope that belongs to this. 

Presently she said: 

“Robert, I am going to-night.” 

“No,” I replied, coming very near to her; 
“no, sweetheart, do not think so.” 

“Yes,” she repeated, “I am going to-night. 
I want to kiss you.” I kissed her. 

“This is for baby,” she said. “And this is 
for you. Good-bye.” 

The nurse came to the door with medicines. 
I stepped into the hall. I was dizzy, and there 
was some big thing in my heart that I could 
endure no longer. I sank into a chair and 
poured out my overburdened grief in a thousand 
tears. It seemed that the pent-up sorrow and 
blighted hopes of days and weeks rushed through 
their open flood-gates. Every strength of me 
was as if it had never been. I knew well that 
this was the last recognition, the last environ- 
ment with her knowing face in it. But I thanked 
God for that other hope, and that other Presence 
Divine. 


18 


WHERE THE SILENT WATERS FLOW 

An hour later her brother Gene came, and we 
sat together in the corridor, meditating the 
strange ways of Providence. The night hours 
passed on very quietly, but heavily, with no 
sounds but the tinkle of a call-bell, the occasional 
groan of a sufferer, and a soft footstep. At 
eleven we were in the sick room. There heaven 
and earth were soon to meet. Nurses, doctors, 
science — helpless all. I sat at her side, but 
those two eyes that had been rapture since 
first I had seen them knew me no longer. That 
strange, unearthly glare, that sightless, un- 
knowing eye, — O, mystery! O, death! Those 
lips that had been so free to say sweet things 
and true, could utter no more word. That face 
in which I had for time read the happiness of 
this life, lost to us its light that would shine in 
a world that is fairer than a thousand days. 
One hand lay across her breast, the other in 
the doctor’s fingers. The pulse fluttered, 
stopped, went on. In the infinite and helpless 
silence a slight wind swept the snow across the 
window with a swishing sound and passed. 
The far tinkle of a bell, a groan, a muffled 
19 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 

step — silence. The world was passing from 
me. I could not hold it — only feel it going, 
going. Strangely there passed through my 
mind quickly the memories of far endearing 
days and bits of old times; the day when I 
first saw her, our evening walks along the 
river in the rock-bound valley, when June was 
climbing to its best and love to its complete- 
ness, another hour under the dear stars, the 
panting dome pulsing with light and love, the mo- 
ments of parting when I must go far away, then 
a vision of the altar and the happy days that 
passed, the months and the years, the startling 
anxiety, the secret fear, and all ending in this, 
O, this! 

Even now it was all seeming so passing 
strange. A feeling like the wave of a warm 
wind swept over me, in which I seemed to 
forget all the past, and wondered dimly, I 
thought I was wondering, whether the scene 
before me were reality or dream. But in a 
moment it all came back to me as real — very 
real. The eyes of the doctor were on the dying; 
his fingers no longer at the pulse, the thin hand 
20 


WHERE THE SILENT WATERS FLOW 


lying in his palm. Presently he laid it, limp as 
death, over the other that rested on her pulseless 
breast. And that infinite silence, never to be 
awakened here again, rested on her face in the 
tranquillity of that satisfied peace that passeth 
all understanding, and that mystery that 
passeth also knowledge, that mystery that 
divides two worlds and holds our hearts in 
speechless awe, was there, and silence — and 
silence — and rest and death! 

Then I was kneeling at her bedside, stretch- 
ing my two empty hands across her feet beneath 
her unknowing eyes, while there was a sound 
of my heart breaking into grief amid the close- 
pressing twilight, and the mists were falling 
over the sea where 

“The stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill.” 

Presently I was conscious of a hand laid on 
my shoulder, a hand that came out of the 
darkness and sought me there. Then I heard 
the waters of the brook Kidron rippling on 
under the shadows. 


21 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


The night passed on and the unlifting storm 
hovered over the sleeping city in silence. Now 
and then a bell in some tower told the passing 
time in solemn and weird tones. What was 
my world now save a hospital, with the dead 
lying in it, and outside darkness, and storm, 
and night? But in those deep psychologic 
hours something was born within my heart 
like an infinite abiding peace. Not that it took 
away my sorrow now, but was like the absence 
of winds that makes the storm easy and quiet. 
Not that I had strength or had anything now 
save night, and night and a hospital corridor 
with dim, glaring lights. And out yonder 
somewhere was the world where I used to live. 

Let me tell you in what unexpected ways I 
found it again. 


22 


CHAPTER II 


Cfje ^ting of tfie iSigftt 

All things now lay behind me, and there was 
no vision of a promised land. Only in the past 
could I have my being. The touch of a vanished 
hand, the sound of a voice that was still, had 
been a world to me. Now there was no world 
that I hoped to find. I was lost in that hopeless- 
ness so common to youth. The days, nights, 
weeks, how long and darkly they lingered! 
And I had no more power to adjust myself to 
a possible social environment than a sick man 
has to physical surroundings. Worse storms 
than beat upon the hillside beat upon my 
heart. So I slept, to forget, as much as I could. 

For the youth, every catastrophe is the end 
of the world. There is nothing beyond, no 
window of prospect, no philosophy by which 
he reasons himself out of the past into a great 
future. That power to reason one’s self through, 
23 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


to live, to be comforted, to be lifted by a sub- 
lime illuminating faith, the knowledge that the 
present is as close against the future as it can 
get, that to-morrow is toward the sun, is only 
for the man of forty-five to feel and know. 

Nevertheless, that true law of which the 
youth may know nothing, lives, and is operative 
at all times. God’s ways of grace and help 
are beyond our own design and often our know- 
ing, and in a mechanical way at least, the youth 
is culturing his faith and patience from one day 
to another. We do not always need to know 
how God is going to help us. Just to know 
that He is, is sufficient. And back of the hope- 
lessness of youth there is, after all, a substantial 
religion, not so much a religion of vision as a 
religion for the present sustaining. 

I do not need, for the purpose here, to dwell 
more on those many days and weeks, nor tell 
further how I lived them. But they wove 
themselves into months, into which I wove 
the threads of past times! Once so dear and so 
close to me, must I finally bid them good-bye? 
Is that philosophy by which we are made to 
24 


THE STING OF THE NIGHT 


forget in the coming and going of years and 
affairs, the hand that helped us, the face that 
loved us, at the sight of which we wept tears 
of joy, is it of man’s own ordering? I do not 
think so. No, we are not so wise. God says 
it is the best way for us. We know that some 
one has managed for us, and that necessarily. 
And I need not say more of this, for mayhap 
a word or two may suggest to the reader some 
train of sacred thought in which he can think 
and conclude for himself. The sound of a 
bird, the sight of green hills, the odor of new 
blossoms, is a sort of opening of new doors 
that says, “ Come out; 

‘ God ’s in His Heaven, 

All ’s right with the world.’ ” 

So I went out and felt the pulsing life of 
June still beating through the old world. It 
rather gave a start to my own pulses, and the 
glory of the day was a lifting of my eyes unto 
new hills. But it was soon winter again, in the 
old way, and I must get on with my story. 

On a bitterly cold midnight in January my 

25 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


train bore me into the great city. The cab- 
drivers stamped, and slapped their sides as 
they called for passengers. So severe was the 
cold that it had a bite like forty-five below, 
and I doubt not it was that. Women folded 
the faces of their little ones to their breasts and 
desperately dared to make way to the doors 
of the depot. The wind whipped around us 
and slapped our faces, leaving an adder sting 
that I shall never forget. But in a day or 
two I read a list of those who had forgotten 
it before the morning dawned. And others 
God wrote down in His own book of remem- 
brance. 

But I had been hardened in a Northern 
climate — knew no other — and decided to walk. 
To make the way shorter, I took through a 
quarter where I had never been. The late 
hour and the severity of it had cleared the 
street of almost every living person. A fine 
sift of snow was in the keen, whipping wind, 
and who could stand before its cold? I verily 
believe it was as keen as man’s ingratitude. 
But the clothier had well cared for me, and I 
26 


THE STING OF THE NIGHT 


tramped on. The houses were running lower, 
I soon observed, and here and there was a 
dimly lighted window, behind which, I suppose, 
some preferred to die by lamp-light rather than 
in darkness. Then I began to wonder where 
the homeless were at that time of that name- 
less night. Or did God have any at that hour? 

Presently I was passing a door that had a 
glass front. Something within caught my 
glance; but I was not certain of the accuracy 
of my vision, and was passing on, when I 
stopped at the sound of a voice. Then I dis- 
cerned that some sort of life, half hidden in 
smoke, was having its being within. A mo- 
ment more and its outlines became more defi- 
nite. The room was nearly filled with beings 
who, by God’s grace and man’s sympathy, we 
will call men ; for who knows whose fault it had 
been they were not of a finer kind, and let us save 
ourselves the Pharisaic prayer? But they were 
what they were, many of them at the end of 
life’s long retreat. Faces wherein God’s light 
had long died out, sin had so changed that I 
had only pity. Clothed in rags, many coat 
27 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


sleeves ending at the elbow. Some of the men 
were standing at the bar quaffing a little more 
death and talking about something else. Some 
lolling in chairs, pounding their knees and 
swearing, some sitting against the wall or 
lying on the floor in a drunken sleep; others 
moving about, standing about, and some 
sitting at tables where hell dealt for souls. On 
a broken chair in a corner was a haggard woman 
with three children about her, the youngest in 
her arms, all driven to this shelter by the 
severity of the night. Then I saw two younger 
women, gaudily and shamefully dressed, go up 
to the bar and drink, sing, and dance with the 
men. And in all there were nearly a dozen 
news-boys mixed with the smoky crowd, thus 
thrown early upon the wages of sin for physical 
existence. 

Dumbfounded and moved to pity, I forgot 
the cold and almost froze. A prickly tingle in 
my ears brought me to a realization of my danger, 
and I went on my way deeply thinking. Reach- 
ing my room, I found it lighted and cozy — I 
had sent word that I was coming — and even a 
28 


THE STING OF THE NIGHT 


flower and a tray of fruit on my table. I sat 
down presently and tasted the grapes. But 
reading is also a pleasure, so I opened the first 
waiting letter I picked up. It read like this: 
“ Mabel Hurley has gone to the city to find work. 
I tried to keep her, but no argument or exhorta- 
tion could avail anything. She has no friends 
or acquaintances there, and I fear for her 
welfare. I can not locate her, but do you 
suppose you could find her? Though I have 
no claim on her, save a deep concern, I would 
be glad to do anything possible for her. 

“Sincerely, Jessie Imboden.” 

“Do you suppose you could find her?” I 
exclaimed. Find her in this great city! Better 
hunt for the pearl that I lost in the woods last 
summer, and which would be the better find, I 
do not know. 

After eating more grapes and reading other 
letters, I took up the evening paper, which 
predicted forty-five below before midnight, and 
much suffering among the poor. The Salvation 
Army would be about fighting back death 
from many a life and home. I fell to thinking, 
29 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 

and my thoughts grew serious in spite of me. 
I laid down my paper and was on my feet walk- 
ing across the floor. I came to a portrait 
standing on the mantle and looked into its 
deep, beautiful eyes till I felt my own becom- 
ing moist and something surging through my 
heart. I had lost a good deal of sleep of late, 
and was very weary in body and nerve and 
mind. In this condition I felt the present and 
the past each struggling for me mightily, a 
great inward conflict that was pulling and call- 
ing hard on each side. Presently I became 
passive, my hand went to my forehead. I 
reeled, and with one hand I caught the back of 
a chair, steadied myself and walked to the other 
end of the room, stopping before a picture of 
the , Christ with the nail-prints in His hands. 
Again I was caught in a great wave of the 
battle and was becoming dizzy. I seemed 
then to be drawn back into the very environ-, 
ment and emotion of that night when my 
world was only a hospital corridor; and on the 
other hand, the crying necessity of that night’s 
suffering world, the battle of children with 
30 


THE STING OF THE NIGHT 


death appealed and appealed. '"My heavens!” 
I cried, ‘‘What—” 

Just then I heard the faint tinkle of the door- 
bell below. It sounded as if a freezing hand 
may have rung it. The house was quiet, and 
all save myself were asleep. I dared not hesi- 
tate. I gathered myself quickly, staggered to 
the door and down the steps, and flung the 
outer door wide open. I stood amazed, seeing 
a poor panting urchin, bound in ragged stuff, 
shivering in the hall-light. “My lad,” I cried, 
“come in.” I took him by the arm and pulled 
him in. 

“Please, mister,” he began, “we’re goin’ to 
freeze ’t our house if no one do n’t help us. 
Help us, mister.” 

“Where do you live?” I asked. 

“Kenneth Street, ’bout four blocks.” 

“Four blocks!” I gasped. “Why did you 
come up here?” 

“It’s the first light I seed.” 

With no more questions, I rushed upstairs, 
threw on my coats, and gathered up some- 
thing for the boy. I threw the garment around 
31 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


him as I reached him, and taking him in my 
arms, we started for his home. We had gone 
about two blocks when he said I had better put 
him down, his feet were cold. Then we ran a 
distance. A cab, at a galloping speed, passed 
the corner ahead of us. From somewhere 
away off in the night I heard the echo of a 
pistol shot. Then all was still as frozen death 
again. 

The houses were dark everywhere till we came 
to Kenneth Street. Here they were small and 
low, suggestive of a miserable poverty that I 
had not expected so near to the respectable 
avenue where I lived. Something of fear 
seized hold of me. I had a feeling that I was 
in the midst of a trouble of which I knew very 
little, save perhaps one feature of it. But 
nothing could have made me surrender to it. 
We passed a row of low, mean houses, some of 
them looking as if they were built partly in 
the ground. 

The boy turned in at one of these places and 
I followed. I could see no light within, and 
not much of anything that stood for a house. 

32 


THE STING OF THE NIGHT 


He dodged into a dark hole. I caught him by 
the arm. 

“Let ’s not go in there,” I said. “Take me 
where you live.” 

“We live in here,” he replied, and there was a 
look of a thousand poor suffering years in his 
face. “It 's our house.” 

I stumbled on something as I groped after 
him in the ill-smelling darkness. In a minute 
he opened a door and pulled aside a blanket 
that hung on the outside of it. A dim light 
with dusky beams scarcely made things suffi- 
ciently visible for reliable discernment. But 
we passed in quickly. I was in the lad’s home. 

I stood chilled, but not with the cold. Then 
a pain rushed to my eyes. 

The mother, with drawn face, sat by the 
stove infthe only chair I saw. Around her body 
was a blanket or two, and under it something in 
her arms that might be a baby. Wrapped in 
some stuff on a couch near her lay a little girl, 

“You ’re kind,” said the mother, “but I 
do n’t think the’ys — the’ys any help, the night’s 

so cold.” 

3 


33 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


‘‘Well, we will see,” I replied. I opened the 
door of the stove. The fire was dying. 

“Ain’t no more wood or coal, and no one 
won’t let us have any,” said the shivering lad. 

“Have you tried to get any?” I asked. 

“Tried all ’round; ain’t none to spare. They 
all need more’n they got.” 

Stepping to the couch, I laid my hand on 
the little girl. She was very cold and seemed 
drowsy. 

“Boy,” I said, “you come here and roll this 
girl’s body and limbs, like this. Keep it up, 
and be mighty busy around here till I get 
back. Do n’t stop. It ’s got to be done.” 

The mother was crying now. I picked up 
the empty coal basket, rushed out and ran in 
the direction of the avenue. At the first re- 
spectable house, I turned the door-bell furi- 
ously, and again. I waited a minute and there 
was no response. A third time I rang. Presently 
an electric light flashed within and I could see 
a man coming. 

Opening the door, he demanded what 
wanted at that time of night 
34 


THE STING OF THE NIGHT 


“I want some coal for a freezing family,” I 
replied. 

“I can’t warm this whole town,” he said, 
with a note of growling impatience, his voice 
trembling with cold. 

“But,” I said, “I must save a baby and a 
girl, and must have some coal at once. I will 
pay you.” 

“I wish you — well, plague it! Wait a min- 
ute.” 

He went back to his room, soon reappeared 
and handed me a key. “Go round and get 
what you want, and say nothing.” 

He shut the door, and I ran around the 
house to the shed. In a minute I had a full 
basket, and was cutting back to Kenneth 
Street. When I reached the house, the boy 
was still at his task, the best he could perform 
it, but now in a feeble manner. 

“How is she?” I asked. 

“She do n’t say much.” 

“ ’Fraid she ’s freezin’,” sobbed the mother. 
“I tried to help her, an’ I thought the baby 
would freeze, too, so I could n’t do nothin’ 
35 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


more. It ’s awful hard to tell just how I feel 
myself. I don’t seem to — ” 

I broke an old chair and rebuilt the fire. 
Then I went to the girl, and started when I 
put my hand on her feet. I shook her. She 
looked about. 

“Do you feel the cold now?” I asked her. 
She said nothing, neither when I repeated my 
inquiry. But presently she whispered, with 
closed eyes: 

“I did, but been gettin’ — ” 

A chill of fear ran over me. Quickly I moved 
the couch close to the stove, rubbed her and 
rolled her muscles. She did not respond in 
any manner. 

“She been sick all day,” said her brother, 
“ an’ ma ain’t feelin’ good.” 

There was something abnormal in the woman’s 
conduct, not due wholly to the cold. I stood at 
the couch between her and the girl, working 
over the latter. The stove now became warm, 
but the room warmed little. Yet when I looked 
around, the mother was dozing. And the boy, 
lying by the stove, was now closing his eyes. 
36 


THE STING OF THE NIGHT 


I was then alone among the sleeping. It was 
a dangerous moment for them all. I looked 
at the girl. She was very still. I could not 
hear her breathing for the voice of the silence. 
The candle was low. I felt of the girl’s forehead. 
It was cold. I grasped her hand, feeling for her 
pulse, but found it not. 

Turning, I shook the mother’s arm to wake 
her. She did not waken. I touched her brow. 
It was like the snow. 

Then I uncovered the babe and felt its hand 
and face. They were lifeless, by the sting of 
the adder night. 

“Boy, you must wake up,” I cried. He 
rubbed his eyes and yawned. Then I knew 
he was safe, and lifted him to a box. 

Then a great, screeching whistle broke the 
silence of the night outside — a whistle that 
rose and fell and shrieked to the skies. 

“O, good! good!” cried the boy, as he sprang 
to his feet. “ They’s a fire ! We can all get warm. 
Wake ma, and let’s take ’em.” 

And therein was suggestion of a problem not 
to be solved in any book. 

37 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 

There was a shuffle of feet and the sound of 
voices on the street. The lad started toward 
his mother. I caught him by the arm and 
exclaimed : 

“Here; this way, boy; let's look out.” 

We went outside. A company of four men 
were passing. I recognized them as night 
workers for the poor. 

Halting them, I whispered my story in a 
word, and gave them the boy. Then they went 
within to take charge of the still house of 
death. 


38 


CHAPTER III 


'^'bt ^erbant on tfjc Cross 

On a night like that I had not reckoned. 
We can not charge God with any crime, but 
society. Whether I belonged to society or not, 

I hardly knew. There was a time when I 
thought I did, and carried some responsibility. * 
But now I got not a little comfort out of the 
idea that since a time gone I had not belonged 
to anything or to anywhere. And I wondered, 
too, where that might put me. 

But I belonged to humanity. I had not given 
that up. I still belonged and held a nominal 
membership. I was, I felt, in some way, brother 
to man. This I felt with quickening pulse 
when I pressed the poor little urchin to my 
heart, and felt my blood warming till it 
beat back the cold. The touch of his misery 
seemed like healing to my heart. Yes, I was 
brother to some one, if it was only one of the 
39 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


world’s rejected. The words “in as much” 
passed through my mind, and my eyes filled 
with tears. I hugged him the harder. I seemed 
to feel the pulses of the whole human world 
throbbing through him to me. O, how I loved 
him! Something vital was coming back to 
me in slow, certain tides, that I recognized* 
Every step was a step nearer — well, I was 
getting back to the world of hearts and homes, 
and foltas, and the way seemed familiar. But with 
my loneliness of spirit pressed against his want, 
my isolation against his wretchedness, my 
heart answering to his appeal, I felt myself 
becoming one with even him, one with humanity 
again. Then loneliness began to leave me, for 
I had found my brother. Problems that had 
been in my mind began to solve themselves, 
for the cause of them was getting behind me 
with every step. And thus as I went on, I went 
on toward hope and life. But keeping one’s 
hope along the road I was destined to take — 
well, that is a different story, one that might 
well be written in one’s own life-blood. 

The sobbing of a homeless, motherless lad, as 
40 


THE SERVANT ON THE CROSS 


he took my hand and clung to it and held it to 
his lean, wet face, called out every sympathy 
of my soul. Truly, I knew this one-half of the 
world had a need to which the other half had 
not become even brotherly. 

“Ain’t got nobody now, only you,” he 
sobbed. “You wasn’t no kin to us, but you 
come, you all come.’’ 

And when, in the gray of the early dawn, he 
was taken somewhere else to comfortable quar- 
ters, by hands gentler than mine, womanly, 
motherly, love-hands, and I went home to my 
two rooms, the thought that I had made myself 
necessary to mankind continually occurred to 
my mind with comfort. A little response, a 
little service in due time, brought me the reali- 
zation that I was “kin’’ to human want. The 
thought of life began to deepen and broaden 
in amazing proportions. As the days came 
and went and the frost hung in the air, I had 
something in my heart that kept me warm, and 
a feeling of comfort in the belief that the world 
wanted me. I felt like running toward it. 
And I wondered why there were not hundreds 
41 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


more of the earth’s disconsolate and lonely 
finding salvation and life in the service of love 
rendered to the world. It is so little to do, yet 
so much. But it is the road we must travel 
if we get to joy, for it leads to the heart 
of it. 

One afternoon I went to hear Catherine 
Booth as she spoke to the poor and under- 
classes. I was not surprised at all to see the 
great numbers that swept in on that cold day 
to hear her. She was the gospel, only she was 
not bread, but the cause of it. She loved 
humanity, and folks knew it. She brought 
the Church — ^what is the Church? — to the front 
doors of men’s hearts and homes. Unspotted, 
she went down to the depths, God and love 
with her, where the Churches have little fellow- 
ship. She was not a committee with instruc- 
tions, but a friend with help. Soon she died, 
and there were thousands who waited for her 
resurrection and the rise of a greater gospel. 

When her meeting closed that day, I was 
swept by the irresistible tide of humanity to 
the street. I saw a great psychology and felt 
42 


THE SERVANT ON THE CROSS 


the heat of its warm waves. Faces told a story 
that no pen shall ever write. Gradually the 
crowd became less dense as I made my way 
toward home, a friend joining me. 

When we had gone a distance and were 
passing a dingy structure, a man opened a door 
in a cellar-way and, lifting his hand, stood look- 
ing at us. He was roughly clad, and his iron- 
gray hair stood in a shock. His eyes had lost 
their naturalness. 

“Men,” said he, “come down and help me. 
I need some help right bad. If you will come, 
we will succeed. Come down right Vay. No 
time to lose. Folks are dyin' fast.” 

We hesitated a minute, looking at each other 
and at the man. “Let us look in,” I suggested. 
We descended the steps, and the man opened 
the door, saying, “We ’ll be sure to get Him down 
now. Waited long time for this help.” 

The one long room was furnished with a few 
necessaries for living. On the wall in the farther 
end hung a large picture. It was a print of 
“The Descent of the Cross,” by Reubens. 
“There He is,” cried the man, excitedly; “we 
43 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


must help get Him down. Got to get Him down 
for the world.” We followed him to the picture. 
Standing before it, he buried his uplifted face 
in his hands and cried, “My God! my God! 
why hast Thou forsaken Me? Here, men, 
help, help,” he went on, going through the 
motions of assisting the men in the picture. 
“We must get Him down. O, He has been a 
precious Savior to me! Put your hand under 
His noble head; see, there. He is heavy. He 
bore the sins of many. For the Lord laid upon 
Him the iniquities of us all. By His stripes 
we are healed.” 

Here the old man stopped to weep, shaking 
with sobs. “By His stripes we are healed,’* 
he repeated. “He was despised and rejected 
of men, but that was a long time ago. Now 
most folks want Him, and we must get Him 
down for them. He ought to be out on Kenneth 
Street and Newall, where folks are dyin’. He 
must be down where the battle is, for He is 
the servant of humanity. I asked some of 
the Churches to help get Him down, but they 
would n’t hear me, and they called a policeman. 
44 


THE SERVANT ON THE CROSS 


Say, when they eat their turkey, tell them to 
break the wish-bone for us fellers who never 
saw one.” 

He was weary. We laid our hands on him 
gently and endeavored to quiet and comfort 
him. We led him to his bed and laid him 
thereon. It was getting dark in the room. 

“If we could only get Him down,” he mut- 
tered, “He would be the healing of the nations. 
We must get the religion of the Church to where 
folks are. O, that my eyes were a fountain of 
tears, my heart a furnace of fire! But this 
poor broken pitcher, and the broken golden 
bowl — and two angels came in white that day 
of my sorrow. O, what song! O, what love!” 

His eyes closed, and he lay quiet with heavy 
breathings. I held his hand. A boy opened 
a back door and entered. “Look out!” he 
exclaimed, seeing us, “father is crazy!” “He 
is asleep,” I said, as I laid his hand, with most 
befitting respect, over his unheaving breast. 

There was a shuffle of feet behind me, and 
the voice of women, as the front door closed 
in the dusk. 


45 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


“No better to-night, poor man,” said one of 
them, as they came near. 

Again the door opened and shut, and two 
policemen approaching us, said: 

“You folks must leave now. Your charity 
has done all it can.” 

“We would be glad to do anything,” said the 
young woman. “Nothing,” said the officer, and 
waved us away. We went out upon the street. 

“We will order you a hack,” I said to the 
ladies. “ It is getting dark and snowing harder.” 

“O, no, thank you,” protested one of the 
women. “We were here a few days ago when 
the little girl died, and we are acquainted with 
the street. We came from the Christian Associa- 
tion, and can easily find our way back. This 
poor old man has a strange dream, and yet he 
has put us to thinking. I am sure Christianity 
is not intended for the air. It ought to be 
down here.” 

“Yes,” I replied, “and elsewhere; but it is 
a task. Now here comes a hack.” 

We hailed the driver and he drew up, took 
in the ladies, and glided into the dark. 

46 


THE SERVANT ON THE CROSS 


I departed alone in the direction I had to go. 
I had gone two blocks, my thoughts busy, 
when I heard a great rattle of something on 
the crossing. Some one’s team was running 
away. They were somewhat tangled and were 
making toward a bridge near where the work- 
men had left a place of temporary danger. 
The horses would certainly plunge into it and 
over to death in a second. They came so near 
me that without a thought save of my own 
safety, I caught one of the animals by the 
bridle and, with all my strength, turned him 
so that both he and the vehicle fell upon their 
groaning sides on the edge of the embankment. 
I was thrown headlong — I did not know where. 
A severe pain ran through my head. I could 
hear some one’s cry and call, and again I fell 
somewhere. 

Then for me came silence and darkness and 
peace. 


47 


CHAPTER IV 


^ jFeto 29ap)Ei of Eesit 

The experience of feeling my way back to 
consciousness was like the beginning of a 
dream. The winter light of another day was 
falling softly from the window, bathing my eyes 
with tender warmth. I felt a disagreeable sen- 
sation about my forehead and, putting up 
my hand, felt a bandage. Then some one 
took my arm and laid it down at my side. I 
lifted my eyes and saw a face that I did not 
know. 

“The baby is dead, too,’* I said, wanderingly. 
“The poor suffer all the time. Snows all 
night; but when we go home — O, yes, you’ll 
go home again. No? But where shall I — why 
the tragedy of it — it’s coming, coming, coming.” 

When my eyes opened again and rested on 
a picture on the mantle, I recognized my 
48 


A FEW DAYS OF REST 


environment. There was a footstep at my 
side in the infinite silence. Then came the sense 
of an awful loneliness — a solitude that shut 
me off from all the world and all the past. I 
had no relation to any one, to any thing, or to 
any where. I was just my isolated self. And 
so bitter was that moment that I closed my 
eyes and courted sleep, hoping that I might 
wake in some land of unbroken fellowships to 
weep no more. I must have slept a bit then, for 
after a little my mind was clearer and happier, 
and whatever might be my fate now, I had a 
feeling of satisfaction for having at least been 
accidentally useful. Peace and comfort rested 
within me. Whether it was the peace of the 
world or the peace of the soul, I did not know 
or question. 

I asked the nurse how long I had been in the 
room, and she said twenty-five hours. 

“What’s the matter with me?” I asked. 

“You hurt your head and have been without 
your right senses for a while.” 

“Didn’t need to hit very hard,” I said, 
seriously. 

4 


49 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


“You are lucky it was not a little harder,” 
she said, smiling. 

“Where ’s the folks — dead or alive?” 

“I think they were not seriously hurt. They 
took them to the city.” 

“Well, it was a cold night, sad for some, 
glad for others. How long must I be here?” 

“Two or three weeks.” 

“Is the world freezing?” 

“It is not so cold now.” 

“Starving?” 

“I guess not. Do n’t mind the matter now.” 

“Well,” I said, “the millionaires of this city 
sleep remarkably well.” 

“It is your time to sleep now,” said my nurse, 
and I obeyed her suggestion. 


50 


CHAPTER V 


tKf)e €bil Winter tfje 

Milder days came again, and the sting went 
out of the winds, changing finally to a promise 
of violets in the country. Snow was melting 
from the streets, and many sought the balm of 
the blue skies. But the sunshine of love and 
happiness was their greater need, the constant 
inpouring of its health into the mind and 
heart of the thousands who had never felt it. 
In those days of convalescence, when I was 
able to be about the city, my spirit suffered 
daily with the city’s many multitudes, the 
sinning and the sinned against, also with the 
apparent return of sorrow. The anguish that I 
experienced I told not to the world, but often 
I found my heart too heavy to pray, words 
stuck in my throat, and only tears were free. 
I was homeless, though not friendless, sorrow- 
51 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


ful and lonely beyond words. Many days and 
battles I had of which I have no desire to write. 
How often have I prayed since that God would 
not let me see another period like that. And 
He never has. But I had to reckon with it at 
that time, and God knows how well or ill I 
battled. Right or wrong, I acted against power- 
ful odds in a pressing, psychological time. 
How often I felt shorn of every defense, every 
resource gone, the last strength weakness. 
But better than I knew, God was keeping my 
mind and soul and disciplining them for sym- 
pathy and service. 

The suggestive character of the conditions 
I had seen in my growing acquaintance with 
the city inspired me with a desire for further 
investigation. I could learn by seeing. So I 
set out to see wretchedness, and saw it reduced 
to its lowest appalling terms and wickedness 
without name. I visited the dark lanes of 
poverty, everything revolting to decent eye 
and ear and nostril. People unwashed, un- 
combed, rooms without light or ventilation, 
midnight upon midnight, ignorance, crime, 
52 


THE EVIL UNDER THE SUN 


pauperism, filth, degeneracy, and premature 
age. 

The rain was pattering upon the street and 
dripping from the doorways, making the scenes 
more dismal. A dozen people trying to sleep 
in one room, some on straw, some with nothing 
under or over them. Thousands existing in 
that manner or dying by inches. What lungs 
that God ever made could live long in such 
atmosphere that hovered around such places? 
Yonder a drunkard staggered on the street, 
and fell with a heavy thud, striking very hard. 
No city ambulance called, for he was only a 
tatterdemalion, one more unfortunate going to 
his death. On his face may have been some 
signs of a former life, for he may have been 
made in the image of God and died for by 
Christ, and still loved by a mother or a sister. 
But around him now are blasphemies and 
obscenities, and no more chance for him than 
for pearls before swine. 

Scores of newsboys crowded in low dens of 
wretchedness, their only shelter for the night, 
the only sign of God’s care of them in a city of 
53 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


wealth and splendor, Churches and colleges, 
boys who should become our respected and 
intelligent citizens, now smitten with every 
moral ill, strangers to kindness and every re- 
claiming influence. What conception could 
they have of God, with no signs of His caring, 
loving nature in the people? And how many 
hundreds there are who have no other idea of 
God than that they get from the lives of those 
they know! 

Pure snowflakes falling into the dirt soon 
become a part of that we trample under foot. 
Half starving were the children, miserably and 
indecently clad, if clad at all, their every cir- 
cumstance and condition a pathetic appeal, 
but whom did the appeal reach? The police- 
men were used to them, and society seemingly 
without a care. 

Here and there was the sign of a helping 
hand, a children’s home or a lodging house, a 
coffee-house, a rescue mission, superintended by 
earnest men and women. But they reached 
only a comparative few of the many hundreds 
or thousands. 


54 


THE EVIL UNDER THE SUN 


Hovels, cellars, and huts for home, block after 
block. Beds of straw or rags in a windowless 
pen, where lay the many from whose eyes the 
light of life and hope was dying. On those 
unlifting shadows the sun never rose, but 
night, always night, damp with perpetual dews, 
a desert night, starless and hopeless. Children 
destined never to know virtue, never to love 
truth nor hear of God save in curses and as an 
oppressor. 

In the dark, dingy alleys, I saw them swarm- 
ing together, a miserable lot, that wrung life 
out of my heart, and sometimes sent me home 
in gloom and despair, wondering on the silence 
of God and the careless indifference of men 
who knew. 

There were blocks of tenement houses — a 
disgrace to a Christian city and a crime allowed 
by society. Here countless tender fingers 
learned to sew, to make flowers and various 
articles, until the little workers fell asleep amid 
the late shadows. Sickness, disease, dirt, 
ignorance, darkness, hunger, and every want 
and need under the sun that shone elsewhere. 
55 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


Families of every race and color of the world 
here represented, thrown together, God sending 
every people of every shore to our doors, our 
Churches holding conventions and prayer- 
meetings, praying God to open new missionary 
fields and avenues of usefulness for our Christi- 
anity, forgetting that we have splendid oppor- 
tunities to write another eleventh chapter of 
Hebrews from possible heroisms and sacrifices in 
our cities of to-day. 

Saloons that kept their gambling dens and 
other vices led thousands, like fools, to their 
death. Voluptuous music entranced ears not 
used to better, gaudy colors flashed, wine 
moved itself aright, and voices talked in un- 
known tongues, hell laughing as through gate 
and door streamed the constantly-coming vic- 
tims, boy and girl, man and woman. 

But among these scenes none of us wished to 
linger long. Our hearts always turned again to 
the suffering poor, thousands of them more than 
deserving, but altogether presenting a task that 
appalled and discouraged many a good soul, 
even prayers. Yonder a score of great factories 
56 


THE EVIL UNDER THE SUN 


sent their clouds to the skies, the rattle and roar 
of business representing millions shook the 
city. And in the dark and abiding shadows of 
the underworld groped those who never knew 
the upper world, and sunlight never kissed 
their eyes. By the still waters of peace they 
never sat, nor lifted their vision unto the hills. 
They dwelt in the secret places of the great 
city, and in the glooms lived, suffered, and died. 

Here and there was a little church among 
the slightly better element, but having form 
and ceremony belonging to the fifteenth or 
sixteenth century. No great American churches 
grappling with this threatening problem as it 
were the life and death of society. Day follow- 
ing day, night lapsing on night, and year on 
year — they were all the same, under the unlift- 
ing cloud, a silent, toiling, dying monotony, 
the cool breath of death on it always, and the 
scorn of the rich and the lash of the bitter 
tyrant that strode on the terrace and slept in 
the marble hall. I had seen a great evil under 
the sun. 

If we can not save our lost men and women, 

57 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


had we better not save our boys nad girls to a 
decent manhood and womanhood, lest they 
become our own destroyers and perpetuate 
their own menace? Had we better not save 
our city that our city may save the country? 
Had we better not stop breeding assassins to 
slay our Presidents and other officials? Had 
we better not break up the nests of nihilism, of 
scorpions and adders, lest they poison the city? 
Had we better not put out the fire, lest we burn 
up? These questions I asked Of many citizens 
of the time and they mostly said, “Likely; 
very likely.” 

And so the weary tramp of shoeless and ill- 
shod feet went on under the smoky shadows of 
the great metropolis, and when, in winter, the 
fierce north wind swept down with swift billows 
of snow, and the clearing sky sent down the 
sting of suffering, there were many homes 
that could not stand before the cold. The cry 
of the starving, the cry of the pained, the wail 
of the lost and the destroyed rang in my ears 
night and day. Often I woke out of dreams 
that were made out of the sufferings I had 
58 


THE EVIL UNDER THE SUN 


witnessed. I wondered if the cause of this 
effect on me were not pathologic, and thus 
questioned my right to think about or become 
impressed by the matters of that time. But 
my right! What had I to do with my right? 
What had others whom I knew to do with their 
right? If God said I had no right, then there 
must be some way to break the sympathy be- 
tween my heart and others, to stop this pull 
on convalesecnt nerve and body. But if I 
should put my hands to work among the people 
instead of beholding them, and crying, “How 
long, O Lord?” might I not relieve my mind 
and find satisfaction and healing in helping 
light the world’s darkness? 

I was going home with some friends one 
evening at half past ten. It was a mild spring 
night in latter May, the large moon shoulder- 
ing to the west. We had been investigating 
some grounds and observing some distressing 
conditions. As we were parting at the corner, 
I to go alone, these two women, apparently of 
unusual respectability, passed us. 

“ Who are they?” we asked. 

59 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


“Jane Addams and a friend,” said one of 
our number. They are the light of the world.” 

But I failed to be optimistic or inspired as I 
walked toward home. The whole situation 
was so appalling, the need so vast and far- 
reaching, and those who cared so few, what 
good could I do? My heart was sick of it all, 
my mind tired with thinking, my hope with- 
out a sky. What was life anyway, that one 
who had lived it on the levels should waste it 
in the far country, trying to restore those 
whose vitalities were already burned out by 
sin and want? Why try to build a house out 
of ash-piles? Elsewhere I could find fine 
material, untouched by any destroying element. 
Why not that for my hands? 

I reached my room soon and, throwing myself 
on the bed, slept. After awhile I woke, the fad- 
ing light of the moon playing through the 
windows. I went down to the street. The night 
was balmy and quiet, the stars sprinkling over- 
head. I could hear only a single train passing 
through a distant part of the city. The sound 
of it was music to my ears. I smelt the country, 
60 


THE EVIL UNDER THE SUN 


saw the green hills, the blue lakes, the shading 
groves. From whence could come my help? 
My help should descend from the mountains. 
I looked at my watch. It was 3.30. A west- 
bound train would leave in an hour. I ran up- 
stairs, went to the telephone, and ordered a 
hack. 

A little later, amid the scenes of waking 
day and fragrant violet scents reaching me at 
the car windows, I lay back in my chair, smiled, 
thanked God, and slept the sleep of the un- 
troubled. 


61 


CHAPTER VI 


3 mu Mv ^into tfje ilills 

I WAS sitting on a large stone, the rapture of 
June around me. The trees new-leafed, rang 
with bird-song, and the fragrance of under 
flowers floated down the shelving slopes that 
rose toward the sky behind me. On the quiet 
lake in front there was not a zephyr to make 
the slightest ripple. Its blue, glassy surface 
stretched away to the south, where it met 
another line of hills that lifted themselves into 
the blue that was like the waters. The sun mak- 
ing love to the world out of the cloudless spaces 
smiled light and warmth upon this favorite 
spot of the earth. A bird far out soared down 
to the glassy, shimmering water to dip its wings 
and pitched into the sky again. 

For an hour I sat drinking in this beauty 
and breathed deep of the pure air. Then I 
stretched myself upon the grasses, my eyes 
62 


I LIFT MY EYES UNTO THE HILLS 


looking into infinite space. Was there ever rest 
like this? What were the balm of Gilead that 
it ever need be thought of here? The healing 
of the hills was sweet, and there was peace 
that passed all former knowledge. The music 
of the trees got into my heart, and I seemed to 
feel every nerve and thought adjusting itself 
to the health and harmony of all things about 
me. I had forgotten the past as the waters 
that pass away. I thought of no future. I 
knew only the delicious, perfect present, dreamy 
with rest. Presently I was sleeping. 

I woke later at the sound of an oar dipping 
the waters. I sat up, and was looking at two 
maidens in a boat a few rods out smiling at 
me. They threw back their heads, laughed 
inaudibly, and turned their boat down the 
lake. Had they dropped down out of Heaven? 
They looked winsome enough for that, and fit 
addition to that choice garden of the earth. 
The liquid silver that dripped from their lifted 
oars, sparkled in the sun. The sound of the 
words that they said to each other floated over 
the quiet waters as a suggestion of the one thing 
63 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


needed for the time and place. I watched 
them till they rowed to shore and climbed a 
path that led over the hills. And I saw them 
no more that day. 

My supplies having soon arrived, I looked 
about for a camping spot, and chose a beautiful 
grassy place in the shade of great trees near by. 
Here I pitched my canvas, '‘light-hearted and 
content,’* unpacked my trunks and prepared 
to keep happy house. When the sun began 
to throw long shadows from the hills, I made 
my fire for supper. 

The odor of bacon cooking in a forest camp 
is delicious. I know nothing like it, save more 
of it, as it floats through the air about the 
grounds. And I had eggs and bread, and all 
else I needed, and a box with a clean newspaper 
on it for a table. Never was millionaire richer, 
or ever sat in more luxurious apartments and 
fared better than I as I sat down to feast. 

I had set my fish-pole below me, giving it 
an eye now and then, so that — what! ho there! 
I saw it swaying to and fro and heard the line 
cutting the water. Scampering down, I seized 
64 


I LIFT MY EYES UNTO THE HILLS 


the rod with glowing joy and pulled in a little, 
whereupon the fish shot down under the banks 
and there had temporary rest. As I pulled I 
could hear the line rubbing the rocks. I was care- 
ful, as a man will be when his breakfast is at- 
tached to the end of a long string, and a great 
uncertainty between it and his hand. But the 
animal assisted me by shooting out along the 
shore, then cutting a perfect half-circle to my left. 
I gave him a steady pull to see what he thought 
about it, but his energy was not abated and his 
eye was undimmed. Suddenly he pitched 
through the air and descended to the depths, 
then sailed away toward mid-sea, till the end 
of the line halted him and faced him to the 
enemy. I drew a little and he came leisurely 
to the shore, as if he had not a care in the 
whole world. ' In a moment he dove fiercely 
into the depths again with aroused energy to 
make way for liberty. I resolved to do the 
same, and moved up-shore a bit where the 
ground was lower, coaxing him forward as I 
went. I would be done with further risks, 
pleasurable as they were. He attempted an- 
5 65 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


other half-circle, throwing the blue waters 
into spray. Then I hauled him home with a 
strong pull, landing him on the ledges above 
me. 

He was a fine specimen, more beautiful than 
any picture. The sight and feel of him made 
my heart beat with joy. I put him on a string 
and returned him temporarily to his element 
and I returned to mine, at the table, now about 
the same temperature as his. But the pulse of 
my life was warm, and all went merry as the mar- 
riage bell. 

Supper over, I reclined in my chair on the 
veranda near the portcullis. The great shadows 
of the hills lay mirrored in the deep, shiny waters. 
Bird voices were dying to an occasional note. 

I saw a spot of white out on the lake. As 
it came nearer, it took outline in the shape of 
two young ladies in a boat. They were singing 
something, and the sound of it was wondrous 
sweet as it bore over the quiet deep. They were 
going to land, I saw, on my own line of shore, 
but I hoisted no warning signal, glad enough 
to have them spy out my country. 

66 


I LIFT MY EYES UNTO THE HILLS 


In a few minutes their boat scraped the 
sands a few feet from the water edge, and 
stayed. I arose and went to offer assistance. 

“Would you care to have me pull the boat 
ashore?” I asked, politely. 

“You may, if you please,” replied the oars- 
woman, and threw me a rope, with which I 
pulled the boat to the dry. 

“Thank you very much.” 

“Do n’t mention it.” 

“It is such a pleasant evening,” she added. 
“It is really perfect weather.” 

“It is ideally perfect,” I replied. 

“It is. We lingered so long on the other 
side that we are a little later than usual in 
returning.” 

“Than usual?” I asked, lifting my eyes. 

“O yes; we are camping up there on the hills, 
we two, and two gentlemen — one a brother, 
the other a cousin, third cousin, is n’t he, Ethel?” 
Ethel only smiled, the pink deepening a bit. 

“Why,” I said, “I am camped up here, too. 
I have not discovered your tents.” 

“O, they are back of yours. You are out 

67 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


on a vacation and should not be thinking of 
what is behind.” 

”I am at least subject to failures,” I said. 

”0, but you must n’t be.” 

“Some failures are successes,” I replied. 
They threw back their heads and laughed 
winsomely, as I had seen them do before. In 
a minute they went to their tents. 

A week from that time we were all very 
friendly neighbors. I learned that the two 
gentlemen were business men from the nearest 
town, and the sisters had lived with their 
brother since mid-winter. Together we climbed 
the hills, went boating, fishing and shooting, 
while June climbed to her loveliest. The 
tinkle of the banjo, the thrumming of the guitar, 
and the blending of our voices in song filled 
many an evening with unspeakable enjoyment 
as we drifted on the waters, the stars sprinkling 
above and beneath us, and the moon riding 
across the bewitching summer night. The 
memory of those times even now stirs within 
me the sacred emotions of youth, till I become 
restless in my hours. But the dreams I learned 
68 


I LIFT MY EYES UNTO THE HILLS 


to dream then have been my defense in many 
a dreary day since. 

Well, the days came and went tirelessly to 
the end of June. One morning the girls left 
us for a temporary visit to town. Standing 
near my tent, I watched them disappear over 
the hills. Then I sat down in my chair and 
suffered without the camp. They returned in 
a short time with a third lady, and we planned 
a boat-ride by moonlight, to gather lilies. There 
were two or three boats, which were to sep- 
arate in different directions, I and Miss Farland 
being together. As our boats parted, we con- 
tinued to sing favorite songs till we could hear 
one another no longer. Then the soft tinkle 
of our banjo and the silver dip of the oars. 

We rowed across and along the fragrant 
wooded shore, where the shadows of it lay 
upon the still waters. About us was the infi- 
nite peace of the summer night, the moon rid- 
ing over the sky, and the silver sheen of it 
flashing on the waters. There was not a 
sound save our own low voices, and now and 
then the chirp of a night bird or the baying of 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


a hound over in the valleys. They were a night 
and a place as rare as are the words that describe 
them. For a time that just took speech from 
our tongues and put wonder and mystery in 
our hearts. 

The lilies now lay about us in all their rich- 
ness. If God ever put richness in a common 
flower, ’tis in the water-lily. We clipped the 
stems of many of them, and laid them at our 
feet. “All things have their night,” I re- 
marked. “These will open in the morning.” 

“Night is profitable; night is necessary to 
all things, even to all folks. Night — night, 
and then the morning.” 

“If it were always as pleasant and wonderful 
as this!” I said. “But sometimes it settles on 
one’s mid -noon, and there are no flowers, no 
stars, no sheen of silver, but storm and rolling 
cloud, and I can not understand it.” 

“But if we will be trustful and patient, and 
can understand the message of the morning, we 
shall thus understand the night.” 

“If this be morning or night, I do not know. 
Can there be morning in the midst of the night? 
70 


I LIFT MY EYES UNTO THE HILLS 


I wish you to be a prophetess for me, Miss 
Farland.” 

She laughed, and I shall never forget the 
sweetness and echo of her voice over the waters. 

“ I can not prophesy or interpret dark things,” 
she said, as she opened the folds of a lily. “Why 
should you be thinking about these matters 
now?” 

“O,” I replied, “I have come out of night.” 

“Then let this be the morning; it must be, 
of course.” 

“But will it remain so?” 

“I can not tell you that. If you will carry 
your own light, you can have morning any- 
where.” 

“But I have no light.” 

“Yes, you have.” 

“Thank you; and I will go back to Chicago.” 

“It will be full of night.” 

“I shall carry my light.” 

“Good! But let it not go out.” 

“Then I would go out; but if the source 
remain — I hope you know — and — understand — ” 

“Now, let me tell you about yourself,” she 

71 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


said, in a sweet way, interrupting me. “You 
tried to light the whole world, you did, and 
became sad because you could not. You saw 
the whole vast task, and thought the perform- 
ance of it depended on yourself alone. And 
when you saw the impossibility of it, and the 
menace and darkness of it, you went down into 
night and cried, ‘Sodom.’ ” 

“Good! I did about that thing,” I replied. 

“You were not satisfied,” she continued, “to 
do an individual work, to bring a life or two 
into the light, to work from a small center. 
You could not see the beauty of what you did 
do because you were thinking of all that needed 
to be done everywhere. And let me tell you, 
thou shalt have peace if you will not try to lift 
the whole world, but lift your neighbor and 
make a world for him.” 

“But I shall have many neighbors,” I said. 

“Have as many as you can help; help as 
many as you can — no more — and you shall 
have joy.” 

“I know it! I know it!” I cried. “This must 
be the morning.” 


72 


I LIFT MY EYES UNTO THE HILLS 


“Then, let us go home,” she said. 

“Have n’t got enough lilies yet. We ’ll need 
a whole lot, since our friends will not think 
to get any. In the morning they (the flowers) 
will have a beauty that would make the raiment 
of Solomon look like a calico dish-rag.” 

She held her breath a second, then laughed 
her surprise at my speech. I dipped the oars 
and cut through a group of leaves. We stopped 
there and gathered in more flowers, which I 
laid — unworthy tribute — at her feet. 

In about an hour we touched shore at camp. 
I landed and took Miss Farland ’s hand to assist 
her to the rock. That done, I still held it, 
looking at it, as we stood together. 

“What a scar you have on your wrist!” I 
said. She withdrew her hand instantly, and 
turned from me to the waters without a word. 
For us all this was the ending of our days in 
the woods. “There they come!” I exclaimed. 
Then we called aloud to our friends, and answer 
came across the silver sheen, and laughter 
came after the sheen. 


73 


CHAPTER VII 


Jfor tfje iiltar of ^elf 

The hills and the lake I had left behind me, but 
June I had taken with me in my heart. I ar- 
rived again in the city at ten in the evening, 
and stepped into an elevated car for home. 
An ill-clad man reeled down the aisle as the 
car slowed at the station. “Terrible hungry 
to-night,” he said. “Boys told me to git off 
at ‘Old Dutch Cleanser,’ an’ here ’t is.” 

I was thus the more keenly reminded of my 
own hunger, which I had brought with me to 
the city, and it called to my thought a passage 
in the book of Zephaniah: “I will utterly con- 
sume all things from off the face of the ground. 
I will consume man and beast; I will consume 
the birds of the heavens and the fishes of the 
sea, and the stumbling blocks with the wicked.” 

But for all that, I had no real desire to be 
cannibalistic. I was just healthy and hungry. 
74 


FOR THE ALTAR OF SELF 


My social experience for the several days 
that followed was a sort of readjustment to a 
former circumstance, but with a better surrender 
of will to work. We thought to build a Christian 
school for homeless lads, made our location^ 
and started plans, which were as yet, it is true, 
chiefly castles in Spain. But we hopefully 
announced our purpose and our need of help, 
and would work for results. I was appointed 
to preside in our plain headquarters room one 
morning to do business and to receive any aid 
that might arrive, while others were about 
to create an interest, to get and send help. 

Near nine o’clock a paper boy came in. 
The newsboy has been described so often that 
I need not picture him here, save to say that 
I thought his condition unusually pathetic. 
I scanned him thoughtfully. 

“Paper, mister?” he asked. I was studying 
his life and lot, and hardly heard him. 

“Paper, mister?” he repeated, pathetically 
and weakly. “Only sold four to-day, an* 
ain’t had no breakfas*.** 

“What!” I cried. 


75 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


“Paper, please?” 

“Did you say you were hungry?” 

“Ain’t had no breakfas’, and I ’d like it if 
you would buy a paper.” 

There was something in his look that held 
me. 

“Why,” I said, “A paper! Would that help 
you much?” I had already bought four that 
morning. 

“I ’d sell you more if you needed ’em,” he 
replied. 

“How many have you?” 

“Dozen an’ half.” 

I handed him a half dollar and said: “Let 
me have all of them.” 

“How much change would it be?” he asked, 
looking at the coin. 

“Keep it all,” I answered, “papers and money. 
I have the news to-day.” 

“Would n’t be right,” he said. 

“Yes, right if I wish you to.” 

“Take the money, but won’t take the papers,” 
he replied, and laying the copies on my table, 
he backed toward the door. I picked them up. 
76 


FOR THE ALTAR OF SELF 


“Here,” I cried, “you better take them.” 
But he was gone. I turned over a paper and 
stood thinking. Who was the lad? One of 
the hundreds? Yes, but surely he was the 
fellow who escaped alive in the still house of 
death on that bitter cold night. I hurried 
out to call him back, but saw him disappearing 
among the crowds down the street. 

He was the first contribution of the morning. 
Could we list him? I did not know. 

Later when I was busy writing, a man entered 
whose condition looked as pitiable as that of 
the boy, and his face was sadder. “What is 
it?” I asked. He did not reply. “Can I do 
anything for you?” 

Would this style of solicitation build our 
school? Had they appointed the right man? 

The stranger yet made no reply. His eyes 
blinked and began to shine, but not with joy- 

“Are you hungry?” I asked, sure of striking 
his wants. 

“No,” he answered, as I looked at him 
kindly. “No, not — not fer food.” 

“0!” I emitted sympathetically, rising. A 
77 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


quick pain shot through my eyes and my hand 
for his. 

When we of the committee met that evening, 
it was an unusual sort of report that I had to 
make. The character of my failures raised 
laughter rather than tears, so far as externals 
were concerned. I had paid out more money 
than I had received as contribution. The 
cause was in debt. I had not done much 
business, but I had felt the pulse of humanity, 
and touched many phases of the world’s need. 
Those who have not done this have, methinks, 
lived to life’s lesser purpose. 

But we soon had some substantial encourage- 
ment, which came to us in various ways. Fre- 
quently I went to lift a personal burden, comfort 
a sorrow, or light a darkness the best I could, 
for such human darkness I had not seen. No 
light, no air, poor water, scant food, bad morals, 
ignorance, hopelessness, night starless and song- 
less, amid which now and then gleamed a 
bright eye, and shone a face that looked like 
God. But no chance, and on the other hand, 
no sense of responsibility with such. 

78 


FOR THE ALTAR OF SELF 


In the meantime I had made friendship 
with a Mr. Warren Philip, a wealthy manu- 
facturer and grand looking man, whose bus- 
iness was on our side of the city. I visited him 
frequently and sought to interest him in con- 
ditions, and — 

“Mr. Philip,” I said to him one evening at 
his office, “it is certain that what affects the 
boy makes the man, and our manhood makes 
the character of our citizenship and of our in- 
stitutions. The loss to the State is even greater 
than to the individual. Even from a physical 
standpoint, poverty affects the height and 
weight of our boys and girls. And this is 
inevitably a symptom of more serious short- 
comings.” 

“Indeed, I would think,” he replied, “that 
too much of it would outline some impossi- 
bilities, but if the poor we are to have with us 
always, why exert ourselves in vain effort to 
rid ourselves of them?” 

“Because we are brothers,” I replied. “Moral 
philosophy can not be far from business phi- 
losophy. Let us look at this matter: The 
79 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


average height of one-room children is forty- 
six and four- tenths inches, and their average 
weight is fifty-two pounds. Of two-room 
children, the average height is forty-seven and 
nine-tenths inches, and weight fifty-five and 
four-tenths pounds. Of three-room children, 
height, forty-nine and eight-tenths inches, and 
weight, sixty-six pounds. And for four-room 
children, the average height is fifty-one and 
four-tenths, and weight, sixty-five and eight- 
tenths. Would it seem an accident, Mr. Philip, 
that one-room children are five inches shorter 
and thirteen pounds lighter than children who 
live in four rooms?” 

“O no, sir,” he answered, “I am aware that 
such reasoning would not be wise or charitable. 
It is not any advantage anywhere to say there is 
not this or there is not that, and this does not 
produce this or that or the other. We can not 
talk results out. I have not built my business 
on that principle. And, Mr. Millard, I am sure 
I am not hostile to this world.” 

“I know you are not,” I said. “It has been 
very kind to you.” 


80 


FOR THE ALTAR OF SELF 


“Very kind, indeed. But it is almost im- 
possible for men who have never had wealth 
to understand those who have.** 

Later, when I rose to go, I observed through 
a window the blaze of the fire in one of the 
yards. I had seen it often, winter and summer. 

“Mr. Philip,” I remarked, “I have often 
noticed the fire in your yards. Are you not 
afraid of it?” 

“No, we keep a watchman over it.” 

“I presume you are burning matter that 
would otherwise be in your way.** 

“Well, yes; rubbish.** 

“Matter that is not useful to you. I was 
wondering whether it would be useful to some 
one in need of fuel, and on what terms it could 
be secured. Pardon me for inquiring, Mr. 
Philip.** 

“I understand you, Mr. Millard,” said the 
manufacturer, “but it is a matter of which I 
can not speak at this time. I will aid you in 
your scheme, however, and shall feel in sympathy 
with you.” 

Then he wrote me a check, for which I thanked 
6 81 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


him. But I understood also, and I went home 
thinking how little one half of the world really 
cares for the other half. 

What was feeding that flame in the man- 
ufacturer’s yards? Rubbish? No; but human 
suffering, the suffering of the poor. Into it 
went the freezing agonies of their winter, the 
tuberculosis cough, the cold cheek, the white, 
pulseless hand that lay limp and dead at 2.30 
A. M. And how? This is how: These over- 
left materials of the factory might have gone 
to warm the families of the employees or the 
homes of the dying poor of the city, but the 
fuel dealers must have a market for their goods, 
and had prevailed upon the management of 
the concern to burn the rubbish in a heap that 
no one might have it, thus compelling them to 
buy, if buy they could, from the coal-yards and 
wood-yards. Therein was a selfishness that 
children could not understand or think upon, 
but must suffer because of it. 

And does this sort of thing belong to our 
American society? Well, verily it does. Its 
principle of action often dominates in various 
82 


FOR THE ALTAR OF SELF 


other social circumstances that loom as prob- 
lems of very great proportions. 

Our race problem is a minor one compared 
to some others that we have in this country. 
An editor in an American city spoke out against 
labor organizations as they are conducted. 
Men blew up his publishing house. A great 
riot was almost precipitated. The governor 
contemplated sending four thousand troops — 
all that he had — but the mayor sent word 
advising against it, for there were ninety-six 
thousand armed labor men in the city. Against 
such odds, there would have been little chance 
for the State. 

Over what volcanoes do we live! How dry 
is the stuff ready to be set on fire! And how 
would it blaze! The heavens would glare, 
writhe, and heave, as they were rolling up as 
a scroll in the last day. 

And yet the teachings of Jesus are to save 
the world. Some conditions must come to a 
climax, the great decisive battle, before the 
better day can arrive — that great and notable 
day of the Lord. It seems impossible now to 
83 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


apply the Golden Rule, but the principle of 
that rule is destined to win out. Let us have 
faith in the prospect and in God. 

But listen to-day and we hear the laughter of 
children dying in the crackle of the flames that 
roar in the yards, and on the cloud of smoke 
rising from the un-Christian sacrifice writes 
the finger of divine rebuke. 

Late in the hours of that night of which I 
have written, as I lay sleepless on my bed, I could 
hear the fires flaming upward till all the laughter 
of the children had died away and eyes grown 
dim, and I could see them no longer. 

There was something rising in my soul 
strengthful and masterful. In a minute I was 
on my feet. 


84 


CHAPTER VIII 

“tKfierc Cornett) ^l:So J^tcobemusi ” 

I RANG the telephone. 

“Hello, William,” I said. “Meet me on 
the corner of Locust in ten minutes.” 

“I will,” came the answer, clearly. 

In ten minutes I was there; so was William, 
a fine young gentleman, whose heart and hand 
were with us in our work. 

Above us were the great stars, around us 
the sleeping city. In the country it was gor- 
geous July. We walked some distance and 
came to where she lived — Hattie, the flower- 
girl. She had been on our own street, and was 
the friend of our work; so lovable in her dis- 
position that she had won many hearts, and 
scattered sun and song into many a day for her 
small world. But lately her cheeks had grown 
thinner and her eyes had lost their luster. 
85 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


She was no longer seen, with her basket of 
flowers, along the usual ways. She was lying 
on her little bed at home, where the sun shone 
for only a half hour in the day, and then came 
the long, long nights. 

A lamp, dimly burning, shone through the 
window. We halted at the door that stood 
ajar. There was no sound within save the 
sigh of a tired sleeper, and silence then. Having 
made our presence known, we were recognized 
and admitted by the mother. She was much 
worn with care and sleeplessness. On a cot 
by the window lay Hattie, her eyes half closed. 
The fever was beating through her face. On 
a box near her was a vase of very rich flowers. 

“Hattie is so awful sick,” said Mrs. Hagan, 
wearily, “and I am nearly beat out myself. 
I wish there would be a change.” 

We well knew there would be that as we 
stood looking at the suffering form. 

“Have you been alone with her?” I asked. 

“Mis’ Hepley was here, and a young lady 
brought them flowers and some jelly.” 

“Who was she?” 


86 


“THERE COMETH ALSO NICODEMUS” 


“She did n’t say who she were, but she were 
just like an angel — she was so good.’’ 

“After all,’’ I said, “there are many of them 
in this world.’’ 

“She’s cornin’ back when she can.’’ 

“Yes, she will be back again, I am sure.” 

“I must have some one. I ’m afraid Hattie’s 
goin’ to die.” 

“We will get a doctor,” said William. 

“ No, we could n ’t have no doctor; we couldn’t 
pay him, and he would n’t come.’’ 

I gave William a wink and went out. As 
I turned the first corner I met a man with a 
small grip. 

“Where does Mrs. Hagan live?” he asked. 

“Why,” I said, a little surprised at his 
inquiry, “come with me.” “Nearly every case 
is hopeless in one way or another in these 
miserable conditions,” said the doctor. “A 
little kindness gladdens, but does not cure the 
cause. Glad to see you people do all you can. 
Charity covers a multitude of sins, but what 
good does that do? Well, is this the place?” 

“It is,” I replied; “it is the place.” 

87 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


The doctor frowned as he entered the poverty- 
stricken room, and sniffed the air of it. When 
he departed a little later, he left only a little 
medicine, often the only thing that a physician 
can leave. Presently two women came in and 
sat down in the silent, hopeless hours. 

Two days later the evening sun was flaming 
down the street, having been busy all the day 
with clover meadows and green fields, and now 
seemed to linger, not for war, but for peace 
and heavenly benediction. The running riot 
of July flowers was far away, “where the bloom 
was on the clover and the blue was in the sky,” 
and the hum of bees stirred the fragrance-laden 
air. But on Locust Street there was only the 
mellow light of the dying day fading on the 
faces of the people, leaving them to the dusk, 
like the departing of hope from the heart. 
And then the stars, to which faith fondly 
clings at last; but they are the lesser lights, 
and belong to that great shadow that we call 
the night. 

And when that great shadow came on that 
day, the neighbors, one by one, two by two, 
88 


“THERE COMETH ALSO NiCODEMUS” 


came into the little low-roofed home to see for 
the last time alive, the face of the sweet flower- 
seller. But she knew her friends no longer. 
All faces and earthly scenes had faded from 
her knowing, and her mind wandered in the 
old paths that led her now and then to the 
border land, where shadows lay along by the still 
waters. Then her parted lips framed no more 
words and her eyes rested like peace under 
half-closed lids. The long folds of her curly 
hair lay back on her pillow. Her hands were 
limp at her side. 

The mother sat with her head bowed in grief, 
and the father with his elbows on his knees, 
looked at the floor. The two younger children 
appeared scared and were speechless. 

At half past nine I sent a word to Mr. Philip, 
asking him to come. Nearly an hour later he 
returned an answer excusing himself with 
sending a check for some money. Toward 
twelve the little room was full of people, and 
the end was near for our little girl. Even at 
that hour of the night there was manifestation 
of love and sympathy often lacking in the 
89 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


mansions made with hands. The warm breath 
of the midnight stirred little, and all was quiet 
along the street. 

I sat by the dying one, who knew not that 
I touched the hand that had often given the 
world flowers. Softly as the zephyr, her breath 
came and went, and came again — yes, came 
again. 

Presently, a tall, princely man stooped 
through the doorway and stood in our presence. 
He was a preacher, world renowned, and my 
friend, as well as everybody else’s. His presence 
and words gave strength to our hearts. He 
knew not it was night, when all great-hearted, 
over- worked men should rest. For him all 
seasons were summer. 

We sat in the silent waiting after he had 
gone. 

“My poor girl! My poor girl!'' groaned the 
mother, as she lay back in her chair, rolling her 
head. Then she arose and walked the floor. 
A ragged, sin-scarred man, whom I never saw 
afterwards, went out of the door in a paroxysm 
of uncontrolled grief. Somewhere, sometime, 
90 


“THERE COMETH ALSO NICODEMUS” 


the little girl had evidently touched the secret 
springs of his better nature, and love taught 
him to know that his soul had company in this 
world. 

Before twelve I sent another request for Mr. 
Philip. I desired that he should see the wretched- 
ness and the sorrows of this poor family. Shortly 
his carriage stopped at our door. He came in, 
and, taking him by the hand, I led him to the 
bed-side. Hattie was dying, and the house was 
filled with crying. 

The mother fell on her knees at the bed and 
threw her hands across her daughter’s feet, 
and poured out the fullness of her heart. The 
father laid his face in his arms and shook with 
tears. A little colored woman was kneeling at 
the foot of the cot, with her face in her apron. 
Some passed into the farther room, as if to be 
alone. 

I took the girl’s hand and held her pulse. 
It came — went. Would I feel it again? Death 
was marked on her features — that dark shadow 
of this world that is ever falling somewhere. 

“This is verily too bad,’’ said Mr. Philip, 

91 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


standing with sympathetic eyes before the 
scene. “So bad! I wish it might not be so.” 

But the shadow had now fallen for all time. 

I took the bank check that Mr. Philip had 
sent, and laid it in the little pulseless hand. 
The dead did not stir. I laid it upon her lips, 
then upon her heart. But it now had no power 
here or there. It was too late — too late! 

The rich man saw the lesson. He began to 
feel deeply; a tear ran on his cheek. Then he 
bowed his head, covered his eyes with a hand- 
kerchief, and verily shook with emotion. Turn- 
ing, he passed blindly out to his carriage. 

A little later than that hour I was walking on 
the street that I might unburden my own heart. 
I walked four blocks and came to a respectable 
street. I cared little for the while where I was 
going. Presently a carriage stopped at my side. 
The door opened and I saw a flash of diamonds. 

“Pardon me, please,” said a woman. “Let 
me tell you who I am and what I want to do. 
I am Mrs. Harriet Caldwell Oring, of Summer- 
set Park. We have been at a party and are a 
little late getting home” — she tried to laugh — 
92 


“THERE COMETH ALSO NICODEMUS’’ 


“but I have been making a canvass for funds 
to buy a home for homeless cats of the city. 
We would like to interest you in such a cause, 
if you cared to help us any. You will pardon 
this interruption.” 

I was rather dumbfounded and amazed, and 
thought perhaps I was dreaming a dream, my 
thoughts and feelings were so cut into. 

“Why,” I said, “Mrs. — Mrs. Oring, there is 
a pretty little kitten down the street that has 
just now died. I wish you would come and 
see it.** 

“O, the poor thing!’* she groaned. “If you 
will get up with the driver and direct us, I 
want to see the pet thing. Do! We can give 
it a nice burial.** 

I climbed up with the driver. 

“Wine, my dear friend, wine! This is a 
devilish way, I tell you! Reminds me of old 
hell Rome,** he whispered to me. 

In a minute we came to the little house. 

“Why, is this the place?’* asked the lady, 
as she alighted. 

“Yes,** I said, “this is the place in here.’* 

93 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


“I will go with the gentleman and return 
soon,” she said to her friends. I led the way 
and opened the door. She sniffed the air as 
she entered. “My! My!” 

She was amazed to see what she saw — the 
room full of people and signs of mourning. 

“ O, dear ! ” exclaimed my cat woman. ‘ ‘Whose 
was it?” 

I led her into the farther room, where Hattie 
lay on a little bed. 

“Here it is,” I said, and lifted the cloth from 
the face of the dead. Her pretty curls lay all 
around her head. 

“O! Why! Why Mr. — ^why, this — hoo — ” 

She straightened herself, threw back her 
head, and blew through her scorning lips. 
Then, turning on her heels, she brushed through 
the doors to the outside. 

“The young lady was here again,” said Mrs. 
Hagan, when I went to speak with her. “She ’s 
awful good. They ’s a lot of goodness in the 
world, after all, or they would n’t be so many 
strange people here to-night just to see us.” 

“Yes,” I said, “the world is full of kindness 
94 


“THERE COMETH ALSO NICODEMUS’* 


and love, and is getting better always. Let us 
keep our faith certain and strong.” 

“Yes, yes,” she answered, “it 's so, all of it.” 

In the gray of the early dawn I started 
home, going by the street from which I had 
been accustomed to see the fire in Mr. Philip’s 
yards. But now I could not see it, only the 
smoldering smoke of the flames died out. 

And it had died out, never to blaze again. 

Do we need to ask why? 

When the sun rose soon, it looked upon a 
better world than when it last set. 

And into my heart came a great strengthen- 
ing of love for man and God and greater faith 
in both. My eyes filled with tears at this happy 
realization. 

How easily it is in our power to help the 
world ! 

And now abideth faith, hope, love — these 
three; but the greatest of these is love. 

O, thou uplifted Christ! That my eyes 
were a river of tears! 

For “there came also Nicodemus.” 


95 


CHAPTER IX 


Cfje #rcat American ^in 

At home two hours later, I was called to the 
telephone. “You know, Mr. Millard,” said 
the voice, “I was going to let you boys of the 
club have the building out at Chesterton for 
the children.” 

“Yes, sir,” I answered, “that was the agree- 
ment.” 

“Well, I want you to have it. It is perfectly 
adapted to your wants, and the location is 
fine. Now, as I said, I want you to have it, 
but you see, I am offered a little better figure 
than we settled on, Mr. Millard.” 

“Why, Mr. Johnson,” I said in a tone of 
surprise, “I thought we had closed the bargain.” 

“Well, of course, I thought so, too, and I 
intend to let you have the property, but I sup- 
pose you will be able to meet the competition. 
You know, the papers have not been made out.” 

96 


THE GREAT AMERICAN SIN 


“We wished to have them completed at 
once, you know, but you went away. We 
thought the property safe for us. But about 
this competition, would n 't your other man 
yield in favor of our work and motive, if we 
could talk with him?” 

“I do not think so, for, in the first place, he 
is not a man, but a woman.” 

“O, a woman! Well! If you will tell me 
who she is, I will see her, for I believe, Mr. 
Johnson, that you want to assist us.” 

“I do not think you could see the woman, 
and an interview would do no good. You see, 
Mr. Millard, she is that woman who wants to 
provide a home for cats.” 

“O, the cat woman! Mr. Johnson, I will see 
you in ten minutes.” I hung up the receiver, 
went down to the street, and caught a car. 
“The cat woman! She is after us,” I solilo- 
quized, and my thoughts flew to pieces. We 
passed a car going in the opposite direction. 
Glancing through the window, I saw two people 
that I knew. One saw me and smiled ; the other 
saw not. The one was Miss Farland, the other 
7 97 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


was the cat woman! They were in the same 
seat! I rose, walked down the aisle and back, 
and sat down again. Several passengers noted 
what I had done. “Well,” I said to myself in 
an undertone, “this is a queer world, if it is a 
good one.” 

“That ’s so, that *s so,” said an old man, who 
had overheard me, in the seat ahead. “That ’s 
what I was tellin* my woman this mornin’. 
We was wonderin^ what we would want after 
we got airships — ^wings, mebbe.” And he 
laughed a dry cackle. 

Then it was time for me to get off. 

I soon learned that the cat woman had 
raised seventy-five dollars above us. I thought 
we ought to have the property, according to 
promises. 

“But, Mr. Millard,” said the agent, “I am 
in business. You should not blame me for 
taking all that is offered, I am sure. If you 
can match her figure, I had rather you would 
have the property. Indeed I would.” 

“But if we meet her offer, she will raise above 
us again. I know her temper,” 

98 


THE GREAT AMERICAN SIN 


“I will promise to say nothing about it. 
You come to-morrow noon, not later, and we 
will secure the trade. It must be closed at 
that hour." 

“Very well," I said, “we will do our best 
and report." 

I went then to join my friends in a cam- 
paign for more money. We had worked hard 
and late, and knew not that it was possible 
to do better. But if there was a will, possibly 
there was a way. We had not the courage to 
contradict that time-worn saying of the ages, 
but set to work to prove it. We made plans. 
We thought there ought to be more and better 
friends of the children than of the cats. I saw 
Mr. Philip, and he gave me thirty dollars* 
worth of encouragement, and the suggestion 
that if we despaired, we should see him again. 

There were four of us who met that evening, 
and, putting our money together, had sixty 
dollars. 

“A tight pull," said my friend William 
Deere. “People are so busy, and have so many 
things to pay for. It ’s a great struggle, I warn 
99 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


you. But we are safe, I warrant you, now. 
It’ll be easy to finish this with joy.” 

”0, we ’ve got cause to be glad,” I said, “and 
we are all in good spirits.” We would finish 
the work in the morning. 

“Better finish it to-night,” one of us sug- 
gested. “The devil never sleeps.” 

“And he uses carriages and street-cars,” I 
added. “Do it now!” we all agreed. We 
were departing, and I was closing the door. 

“Wait,” I said, “the ’phone is ringing.” 

I took the instrument and said: 

“Hello!” 

“Is this Mr. Millard?” 

“Yes.” 

“This is Johnson.” 

“I know it. What ’s up?” 

“Now, Mr. Millard, I have n’t said anything 
to the woman about this building business, but 
she has sent in instructions to raise her figure 
fifty dollars. Better see me.” 

I hung up the receiver and dropped into a 
chair. 

“Boys,” I said, “this is fun. The cat woman 
100 


THE GREAT AMERICAN SIN 


has nine lives. She raises fifty dollars yet 
again.” 

We all sat down. One of us whistled, one 
sang, one laughed, and one looked blue.” 

“Let us despair,” it was suggested, “and 
appeal to Mr. Philip. Despair and appeal — 
therein is our hope and surety.” 

“Yes, appeal, appeal, appeal — anywhere, 
everywhere, appeal,” I exclaimed, rising. “This 
is a call to arms again.” 

In a few minutes we separated, save William 
and I, who took a car to the city. As we came 
downtown, our car stopping at a prominent 
corner, I observed the glare of some outer 
light flashing on the windows. 

“What’s this light about?” I asked, rising 
to get off. 

“ ’Fraid we ’re going to lose it,” said William. 

“Lose what?” I asked. 

“The fine chance at Chesterton.” 

“No, we must not lose it; something’s going 
to happen.” 

“I know we must not lose it, but Millard, our 
great American sin is indifference. Christ 
101 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


came and went on a cross about two thousand 
years ago, and — ** 

“The world is much better,” I put in, “so 
much better now that it is becoming kind even 
to cats, and hearts break when they are home- 
less. Two thousand years ago prisoners of 
war were treated worse than — ” 

There was such a look in William’s face as 
he stared at me that I laughed aloud to relieve 
him, and taking him by the arm, we passed 
silently off the car. 

“Why, Millard,” said he, “there’s just been 
a fire over there.” 

“Well, I spoke about it, but you didn’t 
hear me.” 

“We do n’t care about it, do we? It ’s nearly 
over, and there ’s nothing else doing. We ’ll 
hear all about it. We ’ve got some business of 
our own.” 

“However, let us go over. There’s quite a 
crowd. Let us be citizens,” I suggested. 

We could see the engines still plying their 
labors in the light of the dying flames, and the 
maneuverings of the people, as if there were 
102 


THE GREAT AMERICAN SIN 


yet considerable concern and importance in 
the fire. 

Indifference* is the great American sin.” 
said William, as we took through a dim alley. 

Folks could just as well be blessings and — ” 

“It's the old Fillmore Theater, William.” 

“What is?” 

“Why, the fire’s burned it.” 

“Why, so it is — the disreputable Fillmore. 
Now God be praised, we’ll die happy.” 

“Keep still,” I said. 

We walked through a narrow alleyway where 
the shadows lay about our feet. Beyond the 
corner were the flickering lights playing. We 
stumbled on something which uttered a groan. 
Stooping down, we found it to be a woman, 
who had evidently been rescued from the burn- 
ing building, placed there temporarily, and 
forgotten. Picking her up, we carried her out 
of the shadows. I gave her my coat for a pillow 
and William procured a little water in his hat, 
which he administered according to his best 
notions of its present usefulness. The woman 
groaned again and threw her hands. Blood 
103 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


dropped from her arm. We saw that it had come 
from her side, where her garments were soiled 
with it. She was dressed unbecoming to any mor- 
tal woman. Presently we hailed an ambulance 
that appeared near at hand. Now the glare 
of the light fell upon her face. We gasped and 
looked at each other in blank astonishment. 
We were speechless. 

“Well, say it,” said William in a minute. 

“I will,” I answered. “It is the cat woman!” 

“By jinks!” 

“Jinks!” 

“Where’s your hat, William?” 

“Dunno; where’s yours?” He spoke im- 
patiently. 

“On my head, isn’t it?” 

“No, it is not.” 

“Then I haven’t any.” 

“Well, then, keep your head and your tongue 
about it. Come on. It’s time to get mad.” 
But we laughed in spite of ourselves. 

We did not care for the burning of the theater 
itself, but the loss in dollars and cents was 
soon measured. It could not be saved. Neither 
104 


THE GREAT AMERICAN SIN 


can some of our institutions, as they are, the 
raging, flaming hell of their corruption at the 
center, at the vital heart. And there is no 
exciting rush to this greater destruction. 

Beyond that, God knows how heavily the 
night’s loss rested, and has been resting on 
scores through these years, and will rest for an 
immortality. 

Sin is an old, old fashion and desire of the 
flesh, until we shall have thrown it off for that 
other garment of righteousness and love of 
truth and purity. 

Next morning at ten we were at Johnson’s 
office, prepared to purchase the aforesaid 
property. We all chatted pleasantly and 
thought after all that good was breaking through 
the bad along many old lines. That makes 
fighters cheerful and chatty. It lifts them out 
of much consciousness of suffering and illumi- 
nates the vision and the faith. 

We did not appear in any immediate hurry 
to make out the papers now, only knowing that 
they would be signed before noon. Our enemy 
was among those who had been taken to the 
105 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


hospital, so the morning papers said, but alive 
or dead at that hour, we did not know. We 
were safe, anyway, and were inclined to cel- 
ebrate and chat the hour of our success. 

‘‘William,” said one of the boys, “how can 
you afford a new hat?” 

“O, that’s no trouble. I can have a new 
hat if some one gives it to me. Millard has a 
different one, too.” 

“So he has; so he has. And you were out 
together last night.” 

“Jinks! That ’s so! Tell us now.” 

“O, let’s fix these papers,” said William, 
going to the desk. 

“There *s the phone; wait a minute,” said 
Johnson, laying down the document to take 
the telephone. — 

“Hello! Yes, this is Johnson.” 

“0, yes. Very well, Mrs. Oring. What is it?’* 

“You have? Twenty-five? And you are 
certain?” 


106 


THE GREAT AMERICAN SIN 


“Well, of course, I am a business man, Mrs. 
Oring. Good-bye.” 

Johnson turned around. We looked pale, 
also out of the window, at the floor, then at 
Johnson. He looked blank as marble and ap- 
parently as feeble as a temperance statute — 
somewhere as he leaned back in a chair. The 
room, too, was very cold. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said the agent, “I can’t 
help it.” 

“ Can ’t help it ! Why not? ” said William, rising 
and walking the floor. “ Let us have the prop- 
erty for God’s sake — for humanity’s sake!” 

“Now wait, wait, my friend,” replied John- 
son, lifting his hand. “Sit down. Quit sweat- 
ing. You know this is not my property, and 
you know who I am working for. How much 
would I be worth to this company if I yielded 
to sentiment in business? I think I am not 
ready to die. I have my battles like the rest 
of the world; but men, I am sorry about this 
condition. Under the circumstances, there are 
no two ways for me. The company’s hammer 
falls at twelve. You have forty-five minutes.” 
107 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


“Forty-five!” we groaned, “forty-five! O, 
times! O, customs!” 

The cat woman was not dead, and evidently 
had some secret way of knowing what was 
transpiring. 

I went to the telephone and asked for Mr. 
Philip. He was in New York City. I asked for 
my preacher friend. He was out of town. We 
began to deliberate, while Johnson, at his desk, 
was busy at what he was busy at. For fifteen 
minutes we viewed the matter to no definite 
result or purpose. Diamonds flashed by the 
window, rich carriages drove by bearing men 
who owned millions. Some of them we had 
met. We saw our plans falling away. We 
wished we had been more experienced reformers 
with more prestige. But we were not. 

Presently, as we talked, a young woman 
rushed into the office, threw a letter on the desk 
and, darting out again, stepped into a closed 
automobile waiting for her at the door. It 
was all in a breath. 

“Why, here!” I exclaimed, as I hurried out 
after the young lady. “Why, Miss — Miss 
108 


THE GREAT AMERICAN SIN 


Farland!’' I cried. But she was inside the 
auto door and gone. I rushed after the machine, 
but it left me far, to be sure, and made me the 
occasion of many smiles and wonderings among 
the passing people. The newsboys shouted at 
me. And amid the ridiculous laughter of my 
friends, I came back into the office. 

“Why, what ails you, Millard? What the 
deuce—” 

“Let me see that letter,” I cried. “It 's for 
me.” 

“Yes, sir, and be quick about it,” they de- 
manded. 

I was quick enough. I tore open the letter, 
and under the signature of its single sheet were 
the necessary dollars for our emergency. 

In a jiffy there was a hurried scratching of 
pens, and a low whistling by William, as he 
patted his foot on the floor, amid the unanswered 
rings of the telephone and the great throbbing, 
pulsing beats of the noon clock in the tower, 
whose music quivered over the town. 


109 


CHAPTER X 


^tgn of tfje iHornins 

Then we halted by the way. But the summer 
marched on triumphant with its banners of 
heat. I longed for the country, the lake breeze, 
the grassy shade, and the towering mountains 
behind which the sun would go down early. 
But none of those luxuries were mine now. I 
could not now dream of a probable time when I 
would again have opportunity to loiter away 
such days as they can afford to the weary. 
My path was the path where men are going 
constantly and always; where roses never 
flaunt their blooms, and the grasses never cover 
the ways. The city! Ah, God, the city! I 
said like a prayer. And there I was, one of 
those whose hands were chained to the burden 
of it, no one resting, no one knowing anything 
beside. 

Man was my problem and task. Man has 

no 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


always been and always will be the task of the 
universe. And if the task is ever completed, 
it will be by men who have learned how to 
hope and to have patience. 

The propositions of socialism have been and 
are now pressing upon earnest-minded men. 
But why are men socialists or friends of social- 
ism? Because they have faith that poverty 
can be abolished; that in a land which pro- 
duces more than enough to keep every man, 
woman, and child in comfort, it is absurd 
that millions should suffer from want at one 
end of the ladder, while thousands should decay 
with luxury and superfluity at the other end. 
We do not say that the socialists are right, 
either in program or method, but the brightness 
of their vision and the power of their faith 
which animates it is significant. 

And why is socialism, as a rule, at enmity 
with the Church? Is not the Church for man? 
Yes, but socialism, as it is formulated, is not 
the program or the interpretation of Christianity. 
Certainly the Church stands for man and the 
things he needs; but the Church proposes one 
111 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


way of getting those things, and there is an- 
other alleged way to the same end. But there 
is a ground on which the Church can pitch her 
tent with hope. That ground is where dwell the 
multitudes who as yet as a people are neither 
socialists nor Church folks nor Americans in 
the proper spirit and sympathy and principle. 
But they may become bitter enemies to us 
and of our institutions. They will become any- 
thing but enlightened Christians if left to their 
own lot and influences, for they will interpret 
God and the attitude of the Bible and Christi- 
anity by the light which the lives and conduct 
of Christian people throw on those subjects. 
Their ideas will be formed out of their opinion 
of us. And often, too, the only time the poor 
feel the Church is when it tries to take away 
some of their pleasures. 

When the devil has been cast out, is there 
nothing further to do? Will not character- 
making and positive education remove the last 
slum? What makes a slum? Answer, ye depths 
of hell! 

These matters we discussed at the time of 
112 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


which I have been writing. We attended meet- 
ings and visited the work of Churches and 
auxiliary organizations. We studied the times 
and the dominant tempers of men, the drift 
of thought and opinion and the philosophy of 
conditions. With others we threaded the 
city’s narrow ways and knew whereof we 
spoke. By the use of the press, public and 
private appeal, we, scores of us throughout the 
city, moved the mind of the municipal govern- 
ment that it was in some way responsible; 
could remove many conditions, and, doing so, 
would receive the co-operation and praise of 
all good citizens. 

Meanwhile we were perfecting our work at 
Chesterton. The heat of mid-summer was 
becoming intense. One day in August it came 
upon us with more than usual intensity. At 
ten hundreds were compelled to lie idle, sprawl- 
ing in the parks or resting in every possible 
place that would promise a breath. William 
and I made our way to a lagoon in the out- 
skirts of the city, where we had a boat. There 
we found many such as we, drifting lazily on 
8 113 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


the water, or halting under the willows. We 
rowed across and came to the banks, where 
green branches drooped over us. Some of us 
were almost wildly clad, but our task was to 
live, not to exhibit the fashions. Bird voices 
all were hushed, and folks spoke only feebly. 
We did no unnecessary thing that required any 
effort. It was impossible. 

‘‘William,** I said, “what are we going to 
do at two?** 

“Don*t ask me,** he replied, “don*t say 
anything about it. If you do I *11 — ** 

“But it might be well to speculate for future 
necessity *s sake, you know.** 

“No, I am tired of that, and nearly every- 
thing else. Millard, I am in need of something, 
and I do not know what it is.*’ 

“Now you are getting serious,*’ I replied. 
“This is no day for that. If we get serious 
to-day, we can not live till the cool of the even- 
ing.” 

“Well, I was just saying that I needed 
something. It is not medicine. There are 
little tricks and things that a busy man needs 
114 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


to help him live, not much in themselves, but 
they are necessary to his success. The touch 
of a winsome woman’s hand, Millard, the 
light of her eyes, the sound of her voice in song 
and laughter. She is the godsend, the most 
beautiful and hopeful thing in creation, better 
than a north wind at this very hour. By jinks, 
Millard, I read a poem the other day by Apple- 
ton that went about like this, and I said, ‘Surely 
that was written for me?' 

“ ' Give me your hand ... I have need of it now, 
Need as never before; 

For the strength that was mine is utterly gone — 

A part of my life no more. 

‘“I have walked through the Valley of Dead Desires, 
Tasting the dregs of Despair; 

I have thought for a sign that would give'me peace, 
Sought — but it was not there. 

For some there is Faith that illumes the Path; 

For some there is Hope ever strong; 

But the touch of your hand is the need of me now — 

The sound of your voice in song. 

“ * Shaken and numb is the soul of me, yet 
It shall triumph, if yours be true; 

115 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


Brain and hands shall create and build, 

But only for you, for you! 

And that apple of dust, Success, 

Shall come, if that is your will; 

Give me your hand — with the song on your lips — 

And the ache in my heart is still. 

‘“All that is worthy in me is yours; 

What if my dreams be dead? 

Fires of faith still burn in your heart. 

Unbowed is your regal head. 

Only your love and the light in your eyes 
Can save me from self-defeat. 

I am done with the Game . . . but your calm white soul 
Shames mine when I think of retreat ! 

“ ‘ Give me your hand . . . and the strength that is there 
Shall waken mine anew; 

I can force the fight and win, by the gods! 

But not for myself — for you!’ ” 

“Why, that is the note of our great human 
need,” I said, “and I can not therefore say it 
is not yours, William.” 

“You can not say it is not! Now you know 
it is my necessity. What under the sun an old 
bachelor is for, I do not know. He does not 
116 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


live. There ought to be a national law to im- 
pose a special tax on him. But, Millard, as 
for you, hope is not far off. Who is that ma- 
neuvering spirit that touches your path now 
and then, here and there? By the gods!” he 
laughed aloud, ‘‘you will sail into her presence 
one of these days and you will never sail out 
again.” 

“Well,” I said, “I trust it’s not wrong to 
hope a little for that; and things are going to 
change for you, I am expecting. It’s a long 
road that has no turning. Something ’s going 
to happen. The girl who praised your speech, 
you know — say, is that boy drowning?” 

“Why — I do not think so — no; let us fix our 
fishing things and have some fun.” 

“If it is not too hot.” 

Moving out of the way a distance, we sank 
our hooks. In a little bit we pulled out a good 
bass or two. For an hour we angled with 
satisfying luck. At noon we joined a small 
dinner party, contributing our game, of which 
we had enough for all. 

A little after dinner as we rested in the shade, 

117 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


we perceived a change in the atmosphere. A 
breeze moved over the face of the deep and 
refreshed our spirits. We walked about. Birds 
began to chirp in the trees, and flowers looked 
like things of life. William and I embarked 
and pushed out to the middle. The air was 
cooling surprisingly fast, the breeze rising. 
Along the shores the people were reviving and 
waking to activity and enjoyment. Some 
were departing. We felt that a merciful de- 
liverance had come, and we sang our gratitude 
to God. The cool air was moving into the hot 
city. What a benediction! 

Very soon the breeze was becoming a wind 
sufficient to roughen the water and rock an 
ordinary boat. Yonder the waves were capped 
with foam. The speck of a cloud rose afar off. 
“William,’’ I said, “we are going to have too 
much of this before it is over.’’ 

“Better pull ashore; apt to have a squall.’’ 

We rowed to shore and tied our boat. Nearly 
everybody had gone home. A few were yet 
strolling by the upper end. A stiff wind whip- 
ping our sleeves, we stood looking at the tossing 
118 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


waves and a few coming specks of clouds. One 
patch of cloud sailed swiftly and alone directly 
over us. 

“These are strange features, Millard. I like 
them not," said William, as he viewed the sky. 
“Going to be something doing before sunset; 
and ‘Watchman, tell us of the night!’ ’’ 

“Come, let us go home,’’ I suggested, and 
turned. 

The wind was steadily rising, throwing sand 
and dust and bits of stuff through the air. 
Clouds darker of color appeared high in the 
sky, and the west showed a solid mass of them. 
Women had closed the doors of their houses 
and men here and there stood in the yards 
speculating and measuring probabilities. 

In a few minutes we reached the west end of 
Clinton Street, notorious for its many gambling 
dens, where various other styles of allurements 
and unlawful attractions mastered the tempta- 
tions of hundreds, leaving them hopeless and 
penniless, and had been responsible for crime 
after crime, a nameless disgrace to a modern 
city. 


119 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


“Jinks, Millard, what ’s the trouble down 
there?” asked William, as we looked down the 
street. 

“Some other kind of storm there, sure,” I 
replied. 

There was much confusion of people. The 
blue coats of policemen could be clearly seen 
on both sides of the street. The officers were 
vigorously at work. 

We approached the scene quickly, the winds 
blowing clitter-clatter. The policemen were 
raiding the gambling dens, arresting men, and 
smashing gambling machines right and left. 
Some of the desperadoes were running from 
street to street, any direction by way of escape. 
Many brief tussles between officers and gamblers 
took place, some of the latter being dragged 
out of doors and thrown headlong on the 
street, and finally thrust into wagons, hand- 
cuffed. There was stiff racing from house to 
house, from door to door, amid a great clatter 
of winds and flying debris, storm mingling with 
storm vigorously. On the battle went, up the 
street, with charge after charge on battlement 
120 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


and camp. Many citizens gathered on the 
corners, some apparently eager to take a hand 
in the conflict, but the attacking force seemed 
sufficient for the evil thereof. Others, alarmed 
by the two storms, fled from both, to seek refuge 
from the one that threatened widest danger, 
and whose clouds were looming black, throwing 
lightning spears and rolling thunder on thunder^ 
like a distant Gettysburg. 

But the fight of men against iniquity planned 
for that day and hour was waged furiously, in 
spite of the terrible forces that threatened to 
descend quickly from the heavens. Forward 
and on it swept, against baffling wind and stab 
of lightning. Clatter and smash of window and 
door, call and shout, and cry of help and pain 
and surrender all along the line, wreck and ruin 
following in the track, till the end was reached, 
and the day was famous. The signal given, the 
wagons turned at the corner of Allen, followed by 
policemen, panting, bruised, some bleeding, hat- 
less, and torn of flesh and coat. Followed many 
people on the street, and upon all of them the 
storm and whip of winds drove with increasing 
121 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


fury, while the clatter of shingles mingled 
with the rumble of breaking thunders that swept 
and rolled over the city. 

On the heels of the storm that was departing, 
another was breaking more furiously, or rather 
storm within storm. 

“A great day, this, Millard,” William managed 
to say. “If we do not live through it, I am 
sure it will live on through time.” 

“God grant it,” I answered. “Here, boy, 
give me a paper.” A newsboy stood in a door. 
I took a paper and, turning it in my hand, 
my eye caught a bit of news on the back of a 
supplement. 

“Bill, look — look here! ‘Boys’ Home at 
Chesterton burned by incendiary last night.’ ” 
We gasped. I dropped the paper. We had 
no time to talk it over. Taking my friend by 
the arm, I said: “Come this way.” We were 
two doors from a telegraph office, to which we 
made our way and wired a message to Mr. 
Philip in New York, telling him of our loss. 
He had asked us to communicate with him in 
case of emergency or misfortune. 

122 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


We took the street again to seek heavier 
defenses. War was near to breaking on us all. 
That was apparent. Some clouds were hasten- 
ing faster than others. Great slow-moving 
masses shook with thunder, and farther away 
was a constant rumble. Only with difficulty 
could we hold ourselves against the fury of 
the winds. 

Behind us came a string of cars. We crowded 
on a platform. Men were remarkably silent; 
women worried. Where were we going? Home? 
Anywhere for us, to insure safety if it could be 
found. We got off with others, and fairly fought 
our way to the sidewalks. A mighty crash of 
thunder shook the huge bulk of things around 
us, and ended with a shriek like a sky-rocket, 
crying toward the stars. Then came a great 
burst of winds, in which I could hear the creak 
and tear of a building, followed with a destroy- 
ing crash. In the half second of dead silence, 
a cry of pain and a shout of alarm. Then the 
heavens opened their volleys of rain. The fury 
and terror of the sky were frightfully alarming 
with great dark green rolls and flying bits and 
123 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


patches that looked like things of life suddenly 
gone wild, maneuvering with quick turns and 
varying forms and colors. 

“William,” I cried, “can we make that 
door?” 

“Dunno,” he answered. Clinging to each 
other, we made our way, with some others, the 
wind and rain almost taking our breath. The 
air about us was full of flying debris. Driven 
to our knees, we regained our feet, and staggered 
on. As we got near the door we saw the room 
full of people, all excited, many distracted. 

Then something else happened. I must have 
been picked up by the winds. I came to the 
earth with a great jar, in the midst of a mighty 
roar and crash of things all around me. I 
tried to rise, but was knocked to the watery 
earth again. In a second I struggled to my 
feet in utter darkness. The roar continued 
above me. I was in some building. Blindly 
groping my way, I bumped against a wall that 
crashed forward as I struck it, and threw me 
violently headlong. When I came to my 
senses my head was lying in mud and water. 

124 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


There was light and such a roar over me as I 
had never heard. Whether it were rain, thunder, 
hail, or all combined, I did not know. I began 
to get sick and nerveless and my head throbbed 
with pain. I tried to get up, and fell back. 
Under my shoulders was a newspaper. I had 
sense enough to see a large headline on the 
front page of it. The news read: 

“New York, 9 A. M., August 16.— 
Warren W. Philip, Chicago manufacturer, 
stabbed this morning by assassin, thought 
to be the tool of Chicago interests. Wounded 
man taken to hospital. Can not live an 
hour.” 

I sank to the ground, every dream in me 
crashing like things of the storm, and every 
minute I expected to be hurled to my death. 
I groaned with pain of body, of heart and of 
mind, and was strengthless with swooning 
sickness and nausea. If mortal man can suffer 
more than I did in that hour, may God pity 
him. 

But why should I lie there? If I could not 
or cared not to live long, I might possibly save 
125 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 

some one else. Rallying every energy, I made 
my feet. Three yards from me lay a dead man. 
We were in a cellar. Seeing a stairway, I stag- 
gered toward it, and on my knees, gained the 
floor. It was piled with parts of shattered 
buildings, and on them the rains were pouring 
and sweeping. A hat lay yonder that looked 
like William’s. I reached it and it bore his 
name. A great roof fell crashing in the middle 
of the street, and on the other side of the room 
a large door flew open. I made for it and could 
see several people and hear their alarms. Some 
were crouching and silent. I stumbled over the 
body of a dead woman wrapped in a cloak. 
The feet of a child were protruding from her 
garment. Then I saw the face of the slain 
woman. It was that of Mrs. Harriet Oring. 
Pulling back the cloak, I found the child alive, 
but greatly frightened. At last the better mother 
nature of this woman had come to her higher 
rescue, and at last she loved a child more than 
she loved a cat, and died to save the former. 
So may we all come to our better selves and 
live a good while afterwards. 

126 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


A weeping young woman came running and 
snatched the babe out from my arms. 

“My babe! My babel” she cried, pressing 
it to her heart weepingly. Then she recognized 
me and turned quickly away, a strange look 
in her face. It was Mabel Hurley. The city 
is a hard place for a homeless girl. 

Half fainting and exhausted, I fell to the 
floor. Presently I could feel it rocking, as if 
the building were reeling and lifting. The 
roar of wind and thunder and the crash of 
things generally continued. But if I must die, 
I resolved to die fighting, if possible. With a 
desperate effort, I climbed to my feet, catching 
hold of an iron rod for help. A woman lay 
groaning near me. Picking up some soft stuff, 
I made her a pillow. A man lay on his face 
praying. Some one was singing “Rock of Ages, 
cleft for me.” 

The farther end of the building heaved 
upward, sliding all of us to the street end, a 
struggling mass of us. Then I saw fire start- 
ing in the other end. Before long it would be 
down upon us. We could not get out. The 
127 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


windows were heavily barred. The door opened 
outward, but was broken of latch, and we were 
helpless. 

Then came a lull in the storm, a moment of still- 
ness, when we could hear the crackle of flames 
above us, mingling with the cries of the people 
below. Braced against one of the iron windows, 
I could see men emerging from the massive 
stone structure across the street, apparently 
to observe the signs of the storm. But instantly 
they discovered us and quickly measured our 
danger. Rushing forward to our door, they 
gave it a great pull. It came not, and the whole 
end heaved outward perceptibly. They jumped 
back, lest they be crushed. A rope was pro- 
cured, but to tie it to the door that the end 
might be pulled down to the ground, was a risk 
of life. They hesitated. Then a young man, 
rope in hand, came quickly forward, rushing 
to the straining door. 

“William!” I shouted. “William, get away!” 

He did not seem to hear me. Suddenly a 
great wind tore out of the sky, hurling scores 
of missiles everywhere. I saw William start 
128 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


to run, and fall as if struck. Our wall went 
crashing to the earth. With others, I en- 
deavored to emerge from our plight. Something 
struck me sharply on the head, and I reeled 
and fell. I had a feeling that I was falling an 
endless distance, and continued to sink and 
sink through space. 

When I woke again I found myself in a build-' 
ing with others. There was a roar in my head 
and a great roar in the storm that still raged. 

“O, William! William!” I groaned. ”Why 
did you do it? Why did you do it? 0, why 
should we lose you, best friend of the world! 
When will this end — end — end! 

Then strangely I thought of what we said 
that morning: “This is no day to get serious. 
If we do we can not live till evening.” Yea, 
verily, verily. 

I lay groaning in my pain and sorrow, it 
seemed, a long time. Throwing out my arm 
full length on the floor, it struck something 
soft, and my hand crumpled a piece of yellow 
paper, which I tried to read, but could only 
make out that my name was on it. I knew 
9 129 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


enough to put the paper in my pocket. I 
turned to look at the lad whom my hand had 
struck. He seemed to be the boy from whom 
I had once bought the dozen and a half papers, 
and for whom we had obtained the position of 
messenger-boy in the telegraph service. 

In a minute I was asleep again. 

But after awhile I found myself lying on a 
cot. The roar of the storm was gone, and a 
woman was standing over me. I looked at 
her for a full minute. Then she smiled and 
knelt at my side, with my hand folded in hers. 

“O, Miss Farland!” I cried. ‘‘Is it you? 
Is it you?” 

“Yes, yes,” she said softly, her face aglow 
with inner light. 

“And at last I have found you!” 

“And I have found you, too.” 

“Miss Farland, I love you! I love you!” I 
cried, passionately. 

“Do you love me?” she asked. 

“O, I have loved you for a long, long time. 
I sought you, but could not find you. I dreamed 
of you, longed for you, loved you night and 
130 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


day until, not finding you, I thought happiness 
to be hopelessly far away. But, O, I have found 
you now. Do not leave me — don’t — ” 

She was crying. 

“I love you,” I repeated and, drawing her 
to me, kissed her. 

”I have loved you for months,” she said, 
”and now I love you with all my heart.” 

“You will not leave me?” I pleaded. 

“No.” 

“Never?” 

“I can not.” 

“O, what compensation is this in the fullness 
of time!” 

“Yes, compensation for your risking your 
life for me.” 

“What! Why — how? Where?” 

“Why, the night you stopped the horses.” 

For a bit I could not speak. 

“Do you mean it was you?” I asked, with 
broken voice. 

“Yes— yes— ” 

“You in the carriage?” 

“Yes — do n’t — ” she sobbed, and putting her 
131 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


face in her hands, bowed it upon my beating 
breast. 

“You!” 

There was silence. 

And the peace of love that passeth all measur- 
ing overfilled our hearts, as the spent storm was 
folding its wearied wings. 

Then for me, I knew, the night of darkness 
was over, and the light of life’s morning had 
come. 

But we wept together the tragic losses of the 
day, so infinitely far from what its beginning 
had prophesied. 

“Miss Farland,” I said, “Did you know 
Mrs. Oring?” 

“Yes. Do not speak of her now,” she replied, 
quietly. 

Then I thought of the paper I had placed 
in my pocket. Taking it, I saw that it was a 
message and gave it to Miss Farland to read. 
It went as follows: 

“Received Keller’s wire about Chester- 
ton. Am injured and can not live long. 

Have arranged to give $200,000 to Amal- 
132 


THE SIGN OF THE MORNING 


gamated Charities Association, of which 
you will become a member, and will include 
all of your plans. I will bequeath my 
Willow Avenue residence for your new 
headquarters. Though I can not live, I 
want this gift to live on and on. I regret 
nothing. I owe all to you, and I want the 
world to owe something to me. May the 
God who loves me and whom I love, bless 
you all always. Warren W. Philip.” 

And thus in the spiritual joy and the physical 
agony of sacrifice has the world’s hope been 
born, and from many a wrathful storm that fell 
on earthly things, there have emerged a spiritual 
light and peace that portend a better day for 
mankind. 


133 



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